


BBC Sherlock: Gift of Silence

by Wynsom



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Case Fic, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-25
Updated: 2016-11-25
Packaged: 2018-09-02 04:28:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 20
Words: 74,304
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8651203
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wynsom/pseuds/Wynsom
Summary: Written Pre-Season 4 [completed and published before 1/1/17 and "canon compliant at the time of posting"] although the events take place Post-Season 4: John rescues a child from a car explosion and suffers physical and emotional consequences-vertigo, deafness, PTSD. With his family taken from him, only Sherlock is left to pick up the pieces. Will John let him? [As this was written before Season 4, it makes certain assumptions. If S4 follows canon trajectory, Mary and baby will die. This fic makes no predictions how. Warning: Casefic chapters 7-16, refer to crimes of pedophilia.)





	1. Attenuation

**_In the future…after Season 4._ **

 

**GIFT OF SILENCE**

**ooOOoo**

  **ooOOoo**

_**9 May, 2017** _

 

"JOHN!" Sherlock's distinct cry from a great distance was the last sound he heard before the explosion.

 

The sound before that was of screeching brakes and the sickening noise of a car smashing into a streetlight pole. Bystanders immobilized by shock stood rooted to the pavement in Fulham Road outside the Royal Marsden Hospital, but when John Watson had arrived a bit earlier than expected to meet Sherlock Holmes, the emergency propelled the former army surgeon into action. His combat medical training, as quick as instinct, supported his decision to approach within the window of safety and focused him as he charged toward the scene of the collision.

 

A young child in a sky-blue jacket, screaming for her mother, had escaped the burning Volkswagen Golf just as the fuel leaked from the crumpled vehicle and caught light. Scant seconds before the car erupted in flames with a violent boom, John reached the girl at more than eight metres from the car, dropped them both low to the ground, and shielded her small body with his own. Hunched over her and using his body weight to keep her pinned beneath him, the former soldier covered his own head in clasped hands and endured the deflagration of the shock waves that followed the deafening blast. Burning particles of debris stung his head and hands, a strong force buffeted his body, and pressure seemed to suck the oxygen from his lungs. He gasped despite himself, tasting petrol and dry heat that evoked vivid memories of Afghanistan.

 

It was all over in a flash. Registering that the initial shock of the blast had passed, he felt relieved, but remained huddled. With his eyes still shut tight, he wiggled his fingers, feeling each move properly and lowered his arms to reach for the child squirming impatiently for freedom under the shelter of his body. Securing her tightly in his arms as he tipped onto his side, he experienced a strange reluctance to release her even in the aftermath. He found himself utterly exhausted and unwilling to open his eyes or respond to the prodding hands that urged him to let her go. His head ached. His ears were ringing from the sound waves. Feeling oddly distant, he wondered if he had been concussed by the blast that had blown over them with violent intensity. For the moment, he felt he needed to rest.  _Hang on,_ he wanted to say to those who were pulling and tugging on his arms. He knew he  _should_  release the little girl, push himself off the hard asphalt surface, and get back on his feet.  _Give me a minute._

 

Abruptly the child was torn from his embrace. Startled, his eyes flew open, although his mind struggled to translate the blurry images into something intelligible. Once his vision cleared he saw a fence of human legs penning him in where he lay. Raising his eyes he squinted for clarity and realized he was entirely encircled by unfamiliar faces above those legs. As they peered down on him their mouths moved, mimicking speech. Some of the onlookers were gesturing with their hands as if calling for aid, but John couldn't discern sounds as he fought through his confusion. On their own accord, his arms and legs lashed out defensively to keep the circle from entrapping him. Growing more disoriented by his sideways angle, his whirling vision, and his incapacity to lift himself, John struggled against both a familiar panic that gripped him and the sudden irrational fear he was surrounded by captors with no escape.

 

Sherlock appeared within the crowd of strangers, and everyone else stepped back, as if obeying orders to make room. Although the detective's chest was moving at a rate that suggested he had been sprinting a distance, Sherlock's face showed no emotion as he removed his black leather gloves, and gently cupped John's face in both hands in an attempt to lock their eyes in a reciprocal stare.

 

At first, John had trouble. His wild and rapid eye movement darted back and forth making it impossible for him to focus. At the same time, puffs of air wafted in pulses against John's face—almost certain to be words riding the breath of a speaker up close to his face. That sensation helped John focus on the warmth of Sherlock's hands surrounding his head—the reassuring human contact that grounded him in his vertiginous world. Finally Sherlock's presence calmed him down and helped him lie still. Except, there was an annoying buzz thwarting his attempts to hear what his friend might be saying, but even without verbal assurances, John relaxed and shifted his attention to Sherlock's moving lips.

 

_John, … John…_..

 

Frustrated by his baffling inability to hear, John shut his eyes. Instantly, he juddered with nausea, broke away from Sherlock's hold, and doubled up, retching and hyperventilating. Whilst spasms contorted his body, he was aware of a gentle but firm hand on his shoulder. Once the retching had settled, John collapsed onto his side, fatigued but grateful for the strong arms that had been supporting him. It took him a moment to register who…cautiously opening his eyes, he was not surprised to see his friend kneeling beside him.

 

" _Sssherrrllkk…"_ Then almost as an afterthought, he quickly began patting down his chest and abdomen, arms and legs, just as he had done in Kanderhar, ensuring all of his limbs were present and correct. He was relieved to find his body parts appeared intact.

 

"Nothing missing. I'm all right." Giving a hand signal indicating he was uninjured, John tried to push himself up onto his elbow, but another assault of nausea overtook him, and he aborted the attempt to get up. Blinking repeatedly to clear his vision, John narrowed his eyes and looked toward his friend, the man with all the answers.

 

At first reassured, John began to see through Sherlock's attempts to be calm for him and realized those sharp eyes peering at him were perplexed, but John was more unnerved by the expressive mouth that shaped a variety of words he could not hear. Without Sherlock's voice supporting the fast movement of his lips, it was impossible to determine what his friend was saying. The only word he could make out with his basic lip-reading skills was his own name  _John_  spoken multiple times.

 

"What? Can't hear you!" Aware that he might be shouting, John forced a yawn and swallowed as if adjusting to a change in altitude pressure, but this didn't seem to clear his clogged ears. As the initial shock was wearing off, the clinician in John was whispering the inevitable in words that the rescuer in him was not prepared to hear.

 

"Sherlock?" He tried speaking again, knowing his mouth moved and his throat projected sound. "The little girl, is she okay? And her mother?" He did not hear his own words this time, only a constant ringing in his ears. John raised his head and forced one last test in words. "Did  _she_ make it out?"

 

With his vision swirling kaleidoscopically, John was in danger of passing out and lowered his head, just as Sherlock with one graceful tug had pulled his navy cashmere scarf free and stuffed it underneath him. It took John a moment to recognize the gesture for what it was, but by then John could only grin his thanks as he waited for the ground to stop spinning. "Need a minute." he managed to scrape out at last.

 

Exhaustion overwhelmed him. Weariness shut his eyes where instantly he had entered a silent world of frightening isolation. His dark blue eyes snapped wide open, and despite his discomfort, he angled his head to see better, discovering that he was at the epicenter of a throbbing swarm of activity—a routine he knew well enough with his eyes closed: The London Fire brigade was securing the scene, policemen had already cordoned off the area to keep the curious back, personnel with walkie-talkies lifted to their faces gestured as they reported, whilst paramedics attended the injured.

 

John realized the firefighters had made quick work to extinguish the vehicle. He also spotted with relief the little girl he had rescued. Still wearing her sky-blue coat, she sat nestled under the arm of a woman obviously so distraught by the incident she could not stop bestowing nervous kisses on her daughter's fair head and hugging her tightly. Both were wrapped in emergency blankets and seated in the back of the ambulance where the paramedics, kneeling behind them, checked their blood pressure and oxygen saturations.

 

Another paramedic team with a trolley was rushing in John's direction. Even though John understood why, he objected through gritted teeth.

 

"No! Wait!"

 

John clutched Sherlock's coat sleeve with both hands to pull himself up to a sitting position. Excruciating as it was, he stared into Sherlock's face; again his friend's lips were moving without sounds. John noted now that Sherlock's sharp-features failed to repress his growing concern and his eyes, darkening with worry, expressed a dismaying truth John did not wish to hear.

 

"I'll be all right!" John protested weakly, grabbing at Sherlock's upturned collar to keep his balance. "Give me time!"

 

Again, the clinician in him knew he should accept help. It all fit: the intolerable dizziness, the buzzing that smothered ordinary sounds, all caused by his proximity to the blast. Vertigo and hearing loss meant ruptured eardrums at best, but at worst he could have permanent inner ear damage. He swiped his ears and saw blood on his palms, confirming his suspicions.

 

Despite all his attempts to remain upright, the world whirled with maddening speed causing John to collapse against Sherlock's chest and slump slowly down. Covering his ears as he lay on his side, John curled into a fetal position, unable to control his trembling.

 

And while he could not hear what the paramedics were saying as they moved in to examine him, he did not need to hear the unspoken language of Sherlock's hand clasping his in a firm grip—assuring him:  _we_ will  _get through this as well_ , just before he passed out.

 

**ooOOoo**


	2. Assaulted

_**ooOOoo** _

_**GIFT OF SILENCE** _

_**ooOOoo** _

 

 

The aftermath of the car explosion had been the stuff of nightmares.

 

In scenes reminiscent of his medical evacuation from the battle field in Afghanistan, John had been taken on a blue light to St. Mary's Trauma Centre. He found himself disorientated by both the loss of sound and what he would later learn was a mild concussion. His confusion was exacerbated by his PTSD returning with a vengeance, triggered by the noise of the blast. Even as he was being loaded into the ambulance, his ringing ears were hearing thunderous explosions. He kept his eyes in a fixed stare, convinced that if he looked around he would actually see his ex-comrades, clutching at the bloody stumps where legs had been, blood pouring from impossible wounds faster than he would ever be able to stanch or replace.

 

Disoriented by the bumping motion of the trolley as the paramedics unloaded him at the A&E department, these images swirled in dizzying colors replaced by his memory of Sherlock falling from Bart's, as sharply disturbing as when it first happened. John felt himself screaming, unable to quell the panic as Sherlock bled out on the pavement before him, then again in Magnussen's office. These visions vaporized in a grey cloud that swallowed him. Blanketed in this smoky haze, John imagined hearing peals of laughter—Mary's delightful giggling gave way to sobs and weeping, as he madly swiped at the unyielding mist, unable to see, touch, or comfort her; but the sound of his little daughter wailing in fright clutched John's heart.

 

Between these bouts of auditory and visual hallucinations John moaned and woke to bright lights overhead and strangers studying him. Had he not been so distressed and confused, the routine would have been familiar: He would have realized he was in the resus room being assessed and that they were sending him for a CT scan to rule out intracerebral injury, and after at some point, the ENT would have made a visual inspection of his external auditory canals and tympanic membrane with an otoscope.

 

It was during the worst of his flashbacks that he feared he had been captured by the enemy, but then the familiar face of his friend appeared from the haze, dispelling the confusion and calming him. As John became better acclimated to the sights, smells, and visual bustle of the A&E, he was thankful that Sherlock had remained ever-present in the background the entire time.

 

Once the jostling ended and he was allowed at last to remain still, his PTSD episodes with their disturbing memories faded quickly and his anxiety abated which slowed his racing heart rate. Sleeping became more peaceful and waking was less traumatic. It must have been hours later when he finally awoke, feeling somewhat groggy but without the sense of unremitting panic that had tormented him from the moment of the blast.

 

John could hear nothing, but his vision was unimpeded. Careful not to lift his head, he tried to look around. Being forced to lie flat on his back, plus being collared and blocked, his view of the room was limited. An IV drip had been attached to his right forearm although from his angle, he could not read the label on the infusion. He focused on the A&E department's cubicle ceiling for a moment and cautiously shifted his eyes toward his feet which were under a hospital-issue white cellular blanket.  _No dizziness._ Beyond his feet, he noticed other occupied trolleys parked in the hallway as A&E personnel hurried by.

 

"Sherlock?" His throat was dry, making his voice raspy. "Are you here?" he asked hopefully, expecting disappointment.

 

Within seconds, John felt the tell-tale warmth and gentle touch of a hand on his upper left arm, and Sherlock came into view. His appearance raised a smile of relief and a lump in John's throat. Until that moment, John hadn't been sure if he had crossed the boundary between vivid hallucination and reality.

 

Sherlock had not bled out. Sherlock was okay, although his dark curls were more tousled than usual. He appeared tired but alert. Eyes keen as always, he was unshaven and had not changed clothes. John smiled wider observing that his friend looked as though he was on day three of a case and had not slept or eaten for days. Yet John knew that razor intellect, as sharp as ever despite fatigue, could dissect the tiniest discrepancy in a conversation or a scene.

 

The lips on his friend's serious face formed the word _John_  and cracked the slightest smile. However, before making further attempts to communicate, Sherlock looked up and away, as if his own name had been called. John felt his friend's hand squeeze his forearm reassuringly before it lifted off, then Sherlock backed out of view as two doctors, a man and woman, replaced him. They showed him their ID badges: Dr. Wang and Dr. Hughes.

 

John recognized in their faces the expressions he often adopted whilst at work—professional compassion. Whilst Wang spoke, Hughes held her clipboard so John could watch her transcribe what was said.  _"Good news…"_ She wrote rapidly and legibly. " _Your dizziness and confusion had us suspecting traumatic brain injury from the shock wave, but …."_  Whenever there was a natural pause in speech, she held the clipboard steady to ensure he followed each statement. "… _all the tests indicate that is_ _NOT_ _the case."_ She capitalized and underscored "not" before she continued _."We do suspect concussion syndrome."_ She took the clipboard back and wrote her last message in the largest letters.  _"But your only real injury from the blast is to your ears!"_

 

 _Only. As if it wasn't enough._  John thought wryly. He was finding the vestibular disorientation and hearing loss shockingly debilitating.

 

However, that he had sustained no other significant injuries was indeed good news. The ENT opinion thought his vertigo and deafness were due to ruptured eardrums that would likely heal on their own. Although John's significant hearing loss, accompanied by nausea and vomiting, was not reason enough to keep him in hospital, they had decided his inability to stand was. In anticipation of this recommendation, they had printed out the plan for John to read. It involved administering the vestibular sedative diazepam, further audiology tests, and initiating vestibular rehabilitation therapy or VRT to address his symptoms of vertigo until he could stand. Implementation might take several days.

 

"I'd rather go home," John protested, finding it disconcerting that he could not hear what he was saying.

 

The two doctors considered his request as they conferred. " _We couldn't advise it. We see you live alone."_ Hughes had written the words on her clipboard, empathy written on her face.

 

"I'll get someone to stay with me." His throat closed up, choking back the sadness associated with his status, but he may have spoken too loud judging by their reactions.

 

"I appreciate your concern," he continued with an attempt to adjust his volume, "and I understand what you're saying but I want to go home. I will be better at home." John knew it was about "capacity." He needed to demonstrate he had the capacity to make this decision.

 

After exchanging glances with Wang, Hughes wrote again.  _"The CT scan shows your neck is fine. We'll take off the collar and block. Then let's try to get you to stand. Okay?"_

 

"Fine," John was determined. He had noted the queue of trolleys in the Exit Block of the A&E corridor and decided the other patients needed the beds more.

 

It was a heavenly feeling with the collar and block gone, but trying to "rise, take up thy bed, and walk" may have required some miraculous intervention. Endeavoring to do his best, John shook off the dizzy spell as he sat up, took a deep breath, and swung his legs over the side of the trolley nodding to Sherlock and the two doctors that all was well. Although Sherlock looked ready to spring to his aid, it was Wang who offered his hand to assist John to the floor; once there, John released his support.

 

He could not return their watchful stares because he was already wavering on unsteady legs, but he focused on a spot behind the doctors' heads to get his bearing. Despite his attempts, the room was swaying ridiculously, insidiously. He reached back for support from the trolley unable to offset the undulation beneath his feet. Riding the crests and troughs of a turbulent ocean might have been easier. His elevated heartbeat roared in his head. In the next second, John's legs buckled and as he fell in a tumbling rush, Sherlock caught him.

 

The rest was a blur until he lay back down and the room stopped spinning. When his vision finally cleared, he threw Sherlock a sheepish grin of thanks before the shame of his helplessness forced him to look away. Decidedly frustrated, John considered the facts: he was fine as long as he lay perfectly still, but the smallest movement sent his head reeling and had him reaching for the vomit bowl. And vomiting and dizziness aside, with a diagnosis of concussion syndrome he would need to be watched.

 

"I still want to go home," he repeated stubbornly. "I'll self-discharge if I have to…"

 

 _"How can you go home?"_ The doctors questioned.  _"We suspect concussion syndrome. And the dizziness means you're going to need a competent adult to stay with you and look after you."_

 

It was unfortunately true. He could not stand, he could not hear, he  _was_  vulnerable and alone.

 

Sherlock gestured to the doctor with the clipboard that he wanted to write something. Quickly he scribbled his note and held up the page for John to see.

 

_"221B?"_

 

John stared at the number. For so long, he had been stubbornly opposed to change as if there would never be an  _after_ for what he had lost; he had been a husband and a father and now he had been reduced to simply John Watson once more. It was taking time to adjust—maybe it would take a lifetime.

 

Despite this, Sherlock had been making several oblique references in recent months to the idiocy of them both living alone so many miles apart. The logic being it would it would benefit The Work— _their work_ —if John considered moving back.

 

 _Too soon to move on_ , John had felt each time _. It's not been half as long as when I was convinced you had died._ Shaking his head, John would then change the topic to less painful matters and Sherlock oddly would not press it.

 

For all his persistence about John's returning to Baker Street, Sherlock never asked for an explanation why he stubbornly resisted, nor could John have given him one. Flat-sharing with Sherlock had often been irritating, frustrating, disruptive, and downright impossible, but it had also been among the most satisfying and invigorating; yes, "the very best of times" in John's life. Maybe he didn't feel he deserved that sort or level of companionship; maybe he considered it a step backwards. After everything that had happened, it was impossible to explain the rationale that impelled him; except alone in his home, he could bury himself with his memories— the  _living_  with the dead. That's what it had become. Suddenly the practices of the Egyptian pharaohs did not seem so inhumane.

 

John suspected Sherlock had never really been surprised at his adamant refusal and request for solitude. John had learnt from the master about being alone, about protecting himself from others, about keeping secrets too dark to share. Many nights, the punchbag hanging in his living room had felt the tremendous impact of his fury. He would hammer away at his grief for the good life he had lost and the family he sorely missed until he was utterly exhausted. A move back to Baker Street might mean Sherlock becoming the punchbag. One wrong statement from his friend and John would inflict bodily harm.

 

 _First do no harm._   _But even Hippocrates himself might have struggled to follow his own advice with Sherlock for a flatmate._

 

And worst, John knew that whatever the provocation, he would come off badly from a physical encounter with Sherlock.

 

 _"221B?"_ the raised clipboard still read.

 

He had not wanted to be rescued because he no longer believed in heroes. With his new companions of nausea and vertigo, however, John's options were rapidly diminishing. Whilst his friend had held the clipboard aloft, John studied the simplest answer represented by the combination of numbers and letter, considering all the repercussions and benefits, but still unable to make a reply.

 

Sherlock seemed to understand his hesitancy and snatched the board back, scribbled something else, before turning it around for John to see. He had added the word  _"temporary!"_  under  _"221B?"_

 

John first nodded, then spoke; "Yes." It was a concession he now felt willing to make.

 

A relieved grin flickered on Sherlock's face which John was certain no one else caught; it was too brief.

 

It was settled. Loath to admit it, John's undeniable helplessness was argument enough. The accident had forced him to concede that alone didn't protect him and wasn't an option. Not for the next week or so anyway. However illogical it might be, he wasn't ready to give up the home he had made with Mary or the memories that were still imprinted in those walls.  _Not yet._

**_ooOOoo_ **


	3. Adaptation

**_Gift of Silence_ **

**_ooOOoo_ **

**_Two weeks later... Tuesday, 23 May, 2017_ **

**_ooOOoo_ **

Enveloped by total silence in the pale green waiting room of the ENT outpatient clinic, John couldn't help but mull over his circumstances. Being a patient was not a new experience for him. After all, he had been wounded in Afghanistan, along with other more minor scraps since them. Except this time it felt different, somehow it felt worse. The absence of sound was decidedly unnerving and made him feel oddly vulnerable in ways he never could have predicted.

 

Coming to his appointment  _on his own_  had been his decision, like throwing away the crutch. It was his way of challenging his resiliency. Admittedly, he had been familiar enough with where he was going to find his way, and by using the text-a-taxi service to drop him off, he ensured he found his destination without having to ask for verbal directions. But most of all, he needed to overcome some new reluctance he was having about leaving the confines of the flat. With this foray into the real world, he could test his newly acquired  _coping skills_ —coping skills, not surprisingly, that Sherlock elected to give him.

 

 _The science of deduction_ , Sherlock had championed,  _provides the most valuable tools to compensate for hearing loss_ , and for nearly two weeks, he used John to prove his point.

 

Yet, before John could learn anything in earnest, he had to be able to stand. In the first few days back at 221B, John was virtually bed bound. His bathroom visits were terrifying journeys across uneven terrain. His hands pressing against the walls did not prevent the constant sensations of lurching and spinning that left him exhausted and panting once he had regained the horizontal surface of the bed. Sherlock realized he needed to address John's immediate problem and tackled the vertigo with an impressive knowledge of vestibular rehabilitation therapy—leave it to Sherlock to master VRT like a trained therapist in just a few hours so he could fix John—which he inflicted on John at least three times a day, showing no mercy even when John protested.

 

The one source of clemency eventually came from Mrs. Hudson in the form of  _edible_  food, but not until Sherlock had tried his best, repeatedly, without her assistance. How a scientist with the formidable acuity to conduct complicated experiments on 243 types of ash could not figure out the proper "formula" of timing and technique to cook a decent omelette, John would never know, although he suspected cooking was too  _boring_ for Sherlock. Nausea and the scent of burnt eggs were a particularly bad combination. After several of Sherlock's deplorable attempts, scorched beyond recognition, were served up on a tray and set by his bedside, John considered the possibility that he had died in the blast and was caught in his own peculiar brand of culinary hell. He  _needed_  to recover, he needed to respond to the VRT exercises so he could get up and walk to save himself. Sherlock may not have intended his well-meaning "torture" to be a motivator, but it worked. John practiced his VRT as if it were a lifeline to freedom.

 

Within time Mrs. Hudson must have realized John's predicament, perhaps alerted by the frequent sounding of the smoke alarms. It was not hard for John to suspect that they had been set off. He noticed scarfs of white smoke curling toward the ceiling in the bedroom and Sherlock darting about the flat opening windows and waving his arms. Soon, her more palatable meals, manna from heaven, were brought up on trays three times a day. Whilst Sherlock did not take credit for the delicious food, he never felt he needed to explain their appearance.

 

In a few short days, John had regained much of his stability and balance. Some wobbliness occurred especially if he closed his eyes, but otherwise he no longer felt like a small craft caught in stormy 30-foot high seas.

 

Although he was steadier on his feet, John still felt an imbalance of a different kind. His thoughts seemed chaotic and difficult to force into any resemblance of rational thought, his emotions were running to extremes. For his occasional blinding headaches, he sought relief in sleep, retreating to the bed at unconventional times of the day. A person with less medical knowledge might have chalked it up to concussion, but John knew better. His PTSD had returned before the car incident. He had been able to keep that fact from Sherlock, but whilst at 221B it was hard to mask his symptoms. With the coping strategies he had learnt from Ella, John struggled to contain his roiling anger behind a placid face.

 

However, the vertigo, the hearing loss, and the PTSD together formed the perfect storm of problems. Unable to deal with them all on his own, John was resigned to needing Sherlock's help, if not begrudgingly, and cooperated with Sherlock's ridiculously creative teaching methods and wilder schemes.

 

Unaware of John's quiet struggles on many fronts, Sherlock became the relentless school master, drilling John in the art of observation and devising strategies for John to practice using his remaining senses. It did not take long before John found his new deductive skills helping him negotiate his environment in the absence of auditory signals.

 

Then Sherlock pushed for one thing more—sign language.

 

John adamantly refused.

 

This was not a new topic—Sherlock had always favored the idea of a secret code language between them, yet aside from their old debates on the subject, John had felt his hearing loss was temporary and signing unnecessary if not premature. More than that, accepting his need to learn sign language would force him to acknowledge that this world of silence might be permanent, and that was something he couldn't even begin to contemplate.

 

It was one of many tugs-of-war they had over the course of two weeks, but in the end, John knew that despite being Sherlock's "intriguing experiment," he could not have adjusted to his hearing loss so well. His friend's incomparable tutelage had  _literally_  opened his eyes.

 

So, maybe it was disingenuous to claim he was doing it entirely  _on his own_ , but he was adapting which was the point.

 

With his clinic letter in hand, John had arrived ridiculously early. He had planned it that way. He had requested the first appointment of the day hoping to avoid sharing his wait with a crowd of  _hearing_  people. Upon entering the waiting area, John presumed the bright lights behind the reception window indicated the clinic was officially open and that it wasn't too early, but to his dismay he was not the first patient. A tidily dressed older woman with an overstuffed handbag was tucked in a remote corner, crocheting.

 

As a doctor himself, he should have known. It was the existential joke. There must always be someone waiting or it would not be a  _waiting_  room.

 

He skirted the possibility of exchanging greetings with the lone occupant by keeping his eyes down. He felt awkward about holding conversations; he couldn't tell if he were speaking at an appropriate volume within a given environment. Sometimes he found it hard to gauge if he were competing against loud background noises or in a room in which one could hear the proverbial pin drop. Worse was his ability to understand replies. It was similar to using key memorized phrases in a foreign language with a native speaker—like "Is the hotel nearby?"—and being barraged by their natural fluency in a lengthy and unintelligible reply.

 

"What?" was becoming his only spoken word. For everything else, he relied on body language, and given his natural self-consciousness, that didn't always go well.

 

John walked toward the receptionist, made eye-contact with a hint of a polite smile, handed her his letter to announce his arrival, and turned around. Selecting the seat with the best view of the entire waiting area was a defensive move and once John sat down he was satisfied with his choice.

 _Observation is key,_ Sherlock's voice in his head advised.

 

Despite himself, John smiled. He was amazed how clearly the tone and timbre of the baritone sounded. He was glad he could still hear it in his head. Yet, how long would it be before it too would be harder to recall as it grew fainter in memory? Just as was beginning to happen with Mary's voice.

 

Deliberately curtailing these thoughts, John surveyed the room. Whilst he could not  _hear_ anything, he could imagine what he was missing. On an ordinary day at  _his_  own surgery, phones would be trilling and answered with a melodic greeting of the trained staff. As patients collected in the waiting area, the prevalence of sniffing-sneezing-coughing, especially if it was flu or hay fever season, would mingle with the occasional chirping of mobiles. Often there might be a swell in volume as patients struck up conversations or made the most of surreptitious meetings with friends or neighbors. Sometimes there might be an uncomfortable silence if the patients were not a social lot that day—patient dynamics were an interesting study. Some surgeries piped soothing music to keep emotions calm; others might have a telly chattering. None of this was apparent in the nearly deserted room where John waited.

 

 _You're letting yourself be distracted,_ the unmistakable voice of Sherlock warned.

 

John switched his focus to what he could detect from his perspective. The air ventilation system was working well because the room was not stuffy; the Lino showed the greatest wear at the door and reception area where the heaviest traffic occurred, and the older woman was wearing a pleasant and not- too-sweet body scent—Sherlock would have been able to identify the perfume. Despite her arthritic fingers and knuckles she was crocheting swiftly as if she loved doing it.

 

 _Enough, Sherlock?_ It was exhausting to be deducting at such an intense level all the time. As much as John was indebted to Sherlock's persistent drill sessions, he found the momentary solitude in the waiting room a welcomed relief.

 

John frowned, feeling inadequate and out of sorts. It did not help that he had little confidence that any of his deductions about his current surroundings were accurate. Impatient, he picked up a worn copy of  _Hello_ , nine months out of date and tatty around the edges, flicking through the glossy pages as if he could be diverted by incredible stories of z-list celebrities. After paging through the vain and vapid reports about perfect homes and immaculate children, he realized the futility of it all and angrily tossed the magazine aside, before exhaling a  _presumably_ audible sigh—a sigh that disguised his sudden and violent need to smash a hole in a wall.

 

How many major life events was it possible to endure and continue to get out of bed in the mornings? Life-altering injury, Sherlock's  _death_ , his loss of family, and now this…? He knew that Ella would say that his current hearing loss and vertigo were reasons enough to explain the return of the same overwhelming anger that had afflicted him after Afghanistan, but they both knew the recurrence of his PTSD had been brewing for months before. Bursts of intense rage triggered by the smallest frustrations would leave him shaking in fury and seeking distractions, struggling to manage his emotions and resist acting on the powerful impulses to thump somebody or something, whatever was within reach. Yet, even without a history of PTSD, the challenges he had been facing could have turned an ordinary man violent. Before the car explosion blasted his hearing to smithereens, this anger had been climbing to critical levels. The mounting pressure had made him feel like a bomb about to detonate.

 

 _Breathe!_ He commanded himself as fresh waves of pain broke into his thoughts.  _Calm down!_

 

Making sure that neither the receptionist nor the crocheting woman were looking his way—apparently he had not made a sound—he summoned some anger management techniques that had helped him during his recovery from PTSD. Relaxing his shoulders, John softly inhaled a sequence of deep breaths feeling the calm building and the anger subsiding with each breath, until he had emptied his mind and pushed away his emotions _._

 

 _Must not feel_ , he echoed Sherlock's words; more importantly, John knew he must not expose his demons in a public place. Wrestling as he did with both his anger and emotional turmoil in recent months, John's sympathies for the struggles of sociopaths had risen significantly.

 

Forcing back the last of his anger, John opened his fists, folded his arms across his chest and leaned back slightly. The complete absence of sensory input from his auditory system was difficult enough, even in the sanctuary of 221B, but the dizzy spells he still experienced with his eyes closed were decidedly unsettling. Checking that no one was watching, he fixed his vision on the framed but fading poster of a pontoon reaching over a lake and performed the gaze-stabilization exercises he had learned from Sherlock by moving his head side to side, hoping his bizarre actions would not attract attention. Should anyone have needed an explanation, he would have gladly given one—if speaking had not become such an issue—by comparing it to the practice of skaters or dancers who use this technique to keep themselves from becoming dizzy when they spin around rapidly. This therapy for balance and equilibrium was what had allowed him to be sitting upright in the waiting room. It had allowed him to walk through the door without falling flat on his face or retching uncontrollably.

 

When he had finished he glanced toward the woman again, expecting her odd if not judgmental looks, but her eyes had closed as if for a short nap whilst her hands continued to crochet in an unbroken rhythm.

 

 _You see? It's fine._ He did not recognize the kindly voice that delivered that message. It may have been one of many in his collection associated with encouragement. Maybe it belonged to a former nurse who had spoken to him at his bedside whilst he recovered from his war injury, but he had to agree.

 

It  _was_  fine. Despite his anger, his sleepless nights and flashbacks, despite the sudden episodes of sheer panic, he realized how incredibly lucky he had been and felt especially fortunate to be sitting in the waiting room in an upright position.

 

Most of all, he realized how, in his own unique way, Sherlock had been tirelessly supporting him through it all, ever since they had left the hospital two weeks ago...

 

_ooOOoo_

 

_**10 May, 2017** _

_**08.15 a.m.** _

 

Immediately after self-discharging from St. Mary's Hospital, John had climbed slowly in the waiting Black Cab with Sherlock's support, his teeth gritted in pain, and sprawled across the back seat. Following right behind him, Sherlock had taken the jump seat.

 

Craving sleep, John struggled to fix his eyes on the cab ceiling as it pulled cautiously from the kerb and headed to Baker Street. He could not recall the last time he had ridden a cab on the horizontal, if ever, possibly because if he had, he must have been too drunk to remember. Fortunately, the diazepam he had been given before he self-discharged was acting as a sedative, effectively masking the nausea, and ensuring that his short trip to Baker Street would be vomiting- free. Whilst John did everything in his power to minimize unnecessary movement, he still felt every bump and turn in the road enough to make his head swim.

 

Despite his attempts to stay awake, John dozed uneasily. Losing track of time, he pondered who was with him— _Mary? Sherlock?_ —and not seeing them, wondered where they had gone. He was next aware of Sherlock's face hovering over him where he lay, still flat on his back, until he sensed being lifted up, out, and into a standing position. Images whirled like he was riding a schoolyard roundabout. John could even hear children giggling merrily as they grew ever dizzier. Then, Mrs. Hudson's face appeared, her brown eyes concerned, her mouth forming,  _Oh John_. It was momentary; she was gone in a blink, and the frenetic spinning picked up speed. Unable to support himself, he slumped against Sherlock, and seeking refuge in sleep, never felt the journey up the seventeen steps.

 

When he had woken that first night, startled from his unsettling dreams of tremendous explosions, John had become keenly aware of his circumstances if not his surroundings. His throat was sore as if he had been screaming in his sleep. His heart was racing, his body was drenched in sweat, but he was unable to move without precipitating a fresh wave of vertigo and nausea, unable even to reach for the glass of water on the nearby nightstand.

 

Unwilling to risk more sleep and re-experience those wartime horrors in excruciating time-dilation, John thought he had little choice but to lie motionless, watch the digital clock, and wait until morning.

 

In the semidarkness of the pre-dawn hours, he blinked several times as he focused on the items in the room, identifying the bust of Goethe, the colorful Periodic Table, the print of Poe, dimly lit by the reflective glow of street lights through the window. As he recognized the bedroom, the bed, the private space, he wondered how he had come to be sleeping in Sherlock Holmes' bed, where its regular occupant was, and what might these keepsakes have meant to the man who claimed to abhor sentiment?

 

The man whom John suddenly noticed was sitting on a chair in the room watching him. And as if he could read John's thoughts, Sherlock rose, picked up the water glass, and tilted it so John could sip. When John had finished, Sherlock replaced the glass and sat back down again, resuming his vigil.

 

Soothed by his friend's presence, John closed his eyes and yielded to the gentle sleep that followed.

 

_ooOOoo_

 


	4. Augmentation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Still waiting in the ENT office, John reflects on his two-week recovery under Sherlock's supervision.

_**ooOOoo** _

_**GIFT OF SILENCE** _

_**ooOOoo** _

_**ooOOoo** _

"No Food or Drink in the Waiting Area." The notice taped beside the ENT reception window stirred, as if blown by a breath, drawing John's attention.

 

_Observe what others ignore. If a piece of paper moves the slightest, ask yourself why._ Sherlock would have been texting this if he were sitting next to John. Since the accident, Sherlock had likely composed thousands of texts and handwritten or typed notes. It was the only form of reliable communication between them. John was certain the next text would have been, _What does it tell you about your environment and the individuals within it?_

 

Swiftly considering all the possibilities why the paper fluttered, John immediately knew the air conditioning vent was too far away, so was the opened window behind the fifty-something receptionist fanning herself with a piece of paper where she sat, looking flushed.

 

_Menopausal flushing,_  he diagnosed feeling pleased with himself.

 

But it was the most obvious reason. A draft of air from the outer door signaled that another patient had entered the waiting area. A petite woman in her early thirties dressed in a burgundy-patterned tunic top and leggings with boots walked over to reception and booked in. Her dark auburn hair was too bright a color to be natural, and the roots were showing—she hadn't had time to get them dyed. The wedding band on her finger was an obvious observation, but John detected the woman seemed a bit rushed, probably having got her children off to school. From the photos on her keychain clipped to her handbag it looked as though she had two: a boy and girl. The whiff of her perfume was distinctly oriental and a bit heavier than the crocheting woman's aroma.

 

When the young woman caught him staring, John dropped his gaze with embarrassment, chastising himself for being noticed and realizing Sherlock would have been more discreet and still have picked up at least six more things that he had missed.

 

"The world is full of obvious things which nobody observes." As if he was present and speaking, Sherlock's words from long ago seemed loud and clear in John's mind. After two weeks in profound silence, John realized how much he missed hearing  _anything:_ the soft thud of the door closing, the gushing water when he turned on the faucet, the delicate clanking of the tea cup placed back in its saucer, the click of the light switch on the lamp, but most decidedly he missed his friend's voice—and God help him—even Sherlock's complaining.

 

The woman and the receptionist exchanged nods. Their lips moved in conversation, and John found himself envying them for this gift of conversation that he was denied. Despite his best efforts, his poor lip-reading skills were an enormous frustration that had Sherlock banging his own head on the table in utter despair.

 

Once the women were done speaking, the patient acknowledged him with a nod and took a seat at the appropriate distance to maintain their personal space in the room. After she sat, she gave John a peculiar look as if she was trying to place him. Was she reacting to the way he had been staring earlier? Did she think she knew him? Had she been one of his patients, or had he seen her with a snotty nosed, coughing child at some point? They all blurred into one after a while. Or did she recognize him from the widespread news coverage in the days after the accident?

 

Her scrutiny made John feel uneasy and he quickly checked the stack of newspapers and magazines in front of him, hoping no printed report with his photo and caption were lying about. He had been infuriated when he had discovered that the news media had made a "story" out of the incident—a slow news day, perhaps?—with the obnoxious headline:  _Hero Saves Child from Exploding Car._ The bystanders and the little girl's mother had been interviewed; they had referred to him as "the hero." Certainly, being a hero had been the furthest thing from his mind. He acted instinctively, as he was trained to do—to save a life.

 

_He had saved someone else's child, not his own._  It was becoming more difficult to suppress these intrusive thoughts that had John comparing that little girl with his daughter, if she—and Mary—had remained in his life. Yet, he responded as he hoped anyone would when they saw a child in danger, but whether as a doctor, a soldier, or a father, he could not say.

 

Feeling a bit foolish when he did not find any references to the old news, he picked up a woman's weekly magazine merely to avoid conversation. Uncertain how he should proceed in an otherwise normal situation in a waiting room, he wondered if he should attempt to explain that he was deaf. He had a prewritten card about his condition in his pocket and had just installed an Interpreter app on his mobile, but he hated how conspicuous it made him feel to have to admit to it or excuse himself for it, but most of all he hated  _feeling_  disabled.

 

Unable to concentrate on the mind-numbing magazine, John found his thoughts straying to the days after the accident.

 

OOO

 

If two weeks spent with a fixated man who appeared more on the Asperger's spectrum than usual didn't teach John how to cope, then nothing would. Whilst the A&E doctors had recommended someone—a "competent adult"— keep an eye on John after his head injury, Sherlock was flawlessly competent at keeping an eye on John, he was just less capable of the nuances for caregiving.

 

Neither had wanted to consider the possibility that John's hearing loss could be permanent. During those initial days of recuperation, however, that was the thought running in the background of John's mind. The PTSD had been bad enough prior to the injury, but the vertigo and deafness had made it almost unbearable. Lethargic, John half-heartedly cooperated with Sherlock's training regime, unable to match the exuberance he saw kindling in Sherlock's eyes, that same look the detective-scientist possessed when on an important case or enmeshed deep in an experiment; now those eyes were directed at John. If John had not been so out of it, feeling too rubbish to be anything other than grateful for Sherlock's help, he might have been alarmed.

 

Hell-bent on fixing him, Sherlock charted John's around-the-clock progress/recovery meticulously, documenting symptoms, mobility, even trips to the bathroom with scientific precision. He recorded when the headaches had nearly abated and the nausea had gone, or how long John could stand without tipping over. He dispensed John's medication with strict accuracy, ticking them off on a spreadsheet he had stuck to the fridge. He inputted all John's symptoms in a computer database, and reported as if he were preparing to publish a scientific paper on the success of John's improvements from the vestibular rehabilitation drills that he enforced like an army sergeant.

 

As thorough as he was in so many ways, Sherlock still had not learnt, after all those omelettes had ended in the bin, that feeding his patient required something more nourishing than opening expired tins of sardines that had been in the cupboard for years or serving charred toast disguised with heaps of marmalade. Mrs. Hudson's intervention had immediately become apparent when Sherlock started bringing trays of properly prepared fresh food. John could only image the kitchen mess she had to tackle after all Sherlock's culinary disasters.

 

However, once John's vertiginous symptoms had diminished, allowing him to be more mobile and to pay closer attention to the day-to-day routine, he fully recognized Sherlock's methods for scientific research in all the charts and diagrams about his progress. Grasping that his injury and recovery had become one gigantic scientific experiment, John understood caring had less to do with it than science, except Sherlock cared  _deeply_  about science.

 

As a scientific experiment, John could not have been better monitored, and he reconciled himself to Sherlock's endeavors that were helping him improve, trying for as long as humanly possible to refrain from objecting. But Sherlock's indefatigable attention to detail was exasperating and often an invasion of privacy. When Sherlock revealed his twelve-day graph of John's REM and quiet-sleep phases, indicating what hours of the night the PTSD dreams occurred, John expressed annoyance.

 

"Hang on! You've been watching me when I'm asleep all this time?"

 

Seemingly puzzled by John's reaction, Sherlock nodded affirmative and texted his succinct reply. _"First-hand data is essential."_

 

"How can I get you to  _stop_?"

 

Sherlock's face which had initially been lit with excitement when he showed John the graph returned to a neutral expression. He worded his reply carefully with his lips.  _Get better._

 

John grimaced. That was what he had been _trying_  to do. At least since he had overcome his biggest impediment—the suspicion that pity was Sherlock's prime motivation. This fear had slowly consumed him and anger fanned the sparks into flames, gradually obliterating his gratitude for Sherlock's assistance. So much so, that on the fourth day of his convalescence, despite his vestibular problems having nearly resolved, John refused to participate in any of Sherlock's routines. Rather than practice standing and walking with the  _manic_  coach prompting him—an exercise he felt he no longer needed—John chose to stare out the window as he lay on his back in Sherlock's bedroom, with his hands under his head, and avoid any eye contact. For the first time since his temporary relocation to Baker Street, he missed his punchbag. Sherlock, that pesky insect, however, was not going to give up on John's rehab. There he was waving his arms and shoving pieces of paper under John's nose telling him to concentrate, until John had had enough.

 

"Piss off and leave me alone!"

 

John had turned his head away so he would not see Sherlock's face, but peripherally, he sensed an immediate reaction—Sherlock had gone uncharacteristically still. It was the first time John had spoken aloud in two days, so his words had the desired effect. When he turned his head to check, Sherlock was nowhere to be seen.

 

John sighed. He had barely had any moments alone since his injury to sort things out and felt relieved when Sherlock had finally allowed him some space. As John's whirlwind thoughts settled, his anxieties diminished, and he was able to put everything into perspective. His fear of pity, particularly from Sherlock, was decidedly unfounded. Emotion was not what motivated Sherlock. Rather, he was attracted to the strange and dramatic aspects of a problem or case. It had to appeal to his predilection for the bizarre as well as challenge his ingenuity. Nor had John seen evidence of complex sentiments—Sherlock rarely dispensed sympathy, struggled with empathy, and did not  _feel_  pity. He was simply being Sherlock, doing what he did the best way he could, _because_  they were friends. Sherlock would never take a case for pity's sake, not even John's.

 

What worried John most, however, was the possibility his condition was permanent and the consequences it would have on their working relationship. What would Sherlock do if there were no solution? Would he grow tired, frustrated, lose interest, become so exasperated at John's handicap when it came to their work that he'd begin to leave him out of it?

 

Invalided out  _again!_  This was truly at the heart of John's deepest fears. As he lay on the bed, John focused on his breathing to dispel his apprehension and concentrated on relaxing all of his muscle groups in turn until the anxiety left his body. After ten minutes, boredom set in and for want of something better to do John carefully began the vestibular therapeutic moves. He timed each of them for thirty seconds before returning his vision to the fixed spot on the wall, as Sherlock had taught him. At last, he pulled himself up from the bed, feeling considerably calmer, and walked on steady feet to the sitting room. Swallowing his relief at seeing that Sherlock had not left the flat—the tall man was standing at the window in silhouette with the violin poised to play—John knew he owed Sherlock an apology for his outburst. Experiment or not, Sherlock had been more indispensable since the accident than John could possibly have anticipated, even giving up his room so that John would not need to negotiate the stairs. Whatever his motives, John owed him gratitude not invectives.

 

With his back to the room and the violin tucked under his chin, Sherlock seemed conscious John was standing behind him, and this awareness, or else John's actual footfalls, may have interrupted his playing. But whilst Sherlock tilted his head as if listening, he did not immediately turn around to face John, instead he kept his pose with bow hovering in the air but not yet touching the strings.

 

For Sherlock, the violin was not as much entertainment as it was his technique for rearranging and clarifying his tumultuous thoughts. He often just held it, his version of a stress ball. John felt a tug of guilt that he might be the cause for Sherlock needing it now.

 

Without acknowledging John's presence, Sherlock began to play; his strong fingers pressed the strings along the fingerboard and using rapid, graceful bow strokes, let his raised arm fly with masterful and rhythmic athleticism. The speed of the bow and fingerboard movements, the way Sherlock moved with the violin, the way he held his head, and swayed with the music seemed familiar to John almost as if he could actually hear what was being played. At last, when Sherlock had finished the piece he turned suddenly toward John and mouthed,  _what was I playing?_

 

"Mozart? Don't recall the name of the piece," John replied almost automatically and then realized he couldn't possibly know. "At least, that's what it  _looked_  like… I just got the impression. You used to play that one a lot when I lived here."

 

Sherlock grinned, gently laid down the violin and texted John.  _"You did NOT_   _hear it?"_

 

Frowning, John shook his head, adding softly. "Of course not."

 

" _Interesting! It was Mozart's_ _Eine Kleine Natchumsik_." The next text stated _._

 

John snorted a bewildered laugh and shrugged. "Lucky guess. The bowing motions are a dead give-away, though…."

 

Sherlock's smile dissolved under his suspicious stare, before texting a lengthier message.

 

_"Shall we resume your training now? I need my blogger to be fully functional as quickly as possible. We have cases waiting."_

 

John grinned in appreciation. The apology he had been forming in his head was unnecessary. Sherlock did not require it. Rather, Sherlock's stalwart confidence that John would regain his hearing not only was a boost he sorely needed to help him refocus, it caused a seismic shift in John's attitude. As he moved away from grudging resistance, John's recovery began in earnest with significant progress.

 

OOO

 

Engrossed in his thoughts, John was startled when a sudden shadow fell over him. With an apologetic face, the nurse in an ENT clinic uniform expressed her regret that she had surprised him and lightly touched his arm, beckoning him to come through and see the ENT consultant. Annoyed, John realized that despite the observational skills Sherlock had been teaching him the past two weeks, he hadn't noticed when the door opened or when the nurse approached. In his mind he imagined Sherlock rolling his eyes in disappointment.

 

As directed, John stood and followed the nurse.

_ooOOOoo_


	5. Auditory Threshold Shift

**_ooOOoo_ **

**_GIFT OF SILENCE_ **

 

**_ooOOoo_ **

_"Your hearing should recover…."_ Dr. George Woodward, peering over dark rimmed glasses at John, wrote his remark on the back of a hearing-test form and held it up. He may have been several years younger than John, but his receding hairline of dark hair and grey at the temples made him look older. He obviously meant well, but John did not care for his encouraging smile. In John's current state of mind, it seemed rather patronizing, too much like the one John reserved for patients he thought were on the neurotic side of the scale.

 

The ENT clinic nurse standing alongside Dr. Woodward handed John several sheets of paper. The reports neatly summarized the audiological evaluations from the morning's battery of tests. Giving them a quick glance, John folded the pages and tucked them in the inside breast pocket of his jacket. He was sure Sherlock could make good use of them.

 

". _..May take a few more weeks. Give it time."_

 

John had grown to loathe how often those three words—give it time—were used to comfort him. As a doctor he clearly recognized the platitudes offered to patients to give them hope, no matter how uncertain or dire the diagnosis.

 

Prior to arriving at this prognosis, however, Woodward had performed a full examination with an otoscope and a tuning fork, before sending John for the middle ear tests and for Otoacoustic emissions to determine the extent of damage to the outer hair cells in the cochlea. During the Auditory Brainstem Response test, John had rested quietly whilst the technician pasted electrodes on his head and recorded brain-wave activity in response to sound. But later, when John sat for the Pure-Tone air conduction hearing test to evaluate tones and pitches from low to high, John heard absolutely nothing in the earphones.

 

These results were puzzling. As Woodward reviewed them with John, he indicated that John's complaint of bilateral hearing loss was remarkable because the thresholds of auditory brain stem responses were normal. John's brain could detect auditory stimuli perfectly now that his eardrums had healed nicely, but the message was not getting through to his cortex. In other words, he could hear but he didn't  _know_  that he could hear. It was Woodward's opinion that healing was imminent, especially as his balance had already significantly improved.

 

John already knew that recovery time for a temporary "threshold shift"—meaning hearing reduction—varied, from a few hours to days. The key word was temporary—but it had already been two weeks. If roles were reversed, Dr. Watson might have considered that his patient was suffering from a psychological, rather than an anatomical obstruction. Nobody had mentioned the word psychosomatic, but John sensed that was what the ENT was thinking.

 

"Hysterical deafness?" John posed the question, hoping he had kept his tone calm.

 

Woodward scribbled hastily on the paper. " _There is no physical reason that we've found for your persistent hearing loss, but you can't underestimate the psychological impact of what you have experienced."_  The ENT suggested John return for a follow-up in two weeks.

 

John registered the news with intense displeasure. His brain had tricked him yet again: first with a psychosomatic limp, now with somatopsychic deafness.

 

The irony of this new psychological trauma did not escape him. By comparison to his experiences in the  _hot zones_  during his many tours in the RAMC that caused his PTSD, this relatively simple rescue in civilian life should not have had such repercussions. It was a  _simple_  car accident, in an ordinary London street, resulting in a fire and a minor explosion, and with the quick response of emergency-service personnel, the injuries he had sustained were minor, definitely not life-threatening. John's embattled thoughts ended with a new question: Could his perceptions of the little girl being in danger have been a trigger of some kind?

 

His psychologist knew he had been struggling with guilt for failing to protect his wife and child. "Bereavement takes time," Ella had said during his last appointment before his injury. He had been visiting her regularly again, concerned about his episodes of nearly uncontrolled rage. At that time, she had warned him that his PTSD might resurface in unexpected ways.

 

 _But as hysterical deafness of all things?_  In one swift surge John felt his anger swell as he clenched his fists. Had he been such a fragile shell of a man about ready to shatter when he ran to help the little girl? And this fractured mess, this Humpty Dumpty who had had a great fall, was what Sherlock had been trying to put back together again for the past two weeks.

 

"BLOODY  _HELL!"_

 

It had not been a soft whisper; he had spoken it quite loudly, causing Woodward and the clinic nurse to flinch. Strangely, he did not feel the need to apologize; he felt justified in his anger. Several deep inhalations later, however, he managed a polite thank you, a handshake, and a civil goodbye before swiftly exiting.

 

Head bent to avoid the eyes of the patients in the now filled waiting room, John pondered his situation. Learning to live in a world without sound was more than an adjustment—it was a revelation. The sense he respected as essential for survival in uncertain environments like war and crime fighting and which he used as a tool of his trade as a doctor diagnosing patients now eluded him. How  _do_  deaf doctors practice? Yet, many people with hearing impairments or permanent deafness maneuvered through work, life, relationships, London, quite well, despite the deficit, once they had learnt adaptive skills.

 

 _It should be temporary_ , he reminded himself, but now he recognized it was more complicated than simply recovering his hearing.

 

The mobile in his jacket pocket vibrated. Surprised, John thought the timing coincidental; he had just finished his appointment and had not yet texted the taxi service to request a pick-up.

 

_Waiting outside. SH_

 

Sherlock stepped into view as soon as John exited the clinic. With an encouraging tilt of his head, the detective indicated they could leave together.

 

John hesitated for the briefest moment with the thought— _why are you here?—_ his eyes filling with suspicion before he looked away. As it was, he preferred having Sherlock's companionship and softly agreed. "Fine." He did not speak again until after they had passed the Chinese-Korean restaurant. "You spent the last two weeks schooling me to notice everything—"

 

Sherlock pulled a face, his brows knitted, as John stated the obvious, but that did not discourage John from continuing.

 

" _Observation is key,_ and all that." John could still visualize those three words written everywhere Sherlock found a writing surface—including the steamy bathroom mirror—which John immediately spotted when he pulled the shower curtain aside to towel off. The genius had used his  _supreme intellect_  to time when John would see the message drawn with a finger before it steamed up again. Sherlock must have been waiting until he heard John shut off the water, or more likely, John thought, Sherlock  _knew_  precisely the allotted time John gave himself for a shower—the indelible consequence of basic training.

 

But by the end of those taxing first two weeks in his soundless world, John knew he was improving significantly. He had become more observant and learnt to compensate with his other senses. Noticing shadows, feeling footfalls on the floor, relying heavily on peripheral vision, sensing aromas, perceiving climate alterations, and looking around constantly were the survival skills he had mastered. Not only was he satisfied with his progress, Sherlock seemed quite pleased as well, although he was averse to admit it.

 

"Showing up after my appointment wasn't necessary." John hoped his voice didn't sound too critical. "You should trust me a little bit more."

 

 _"Trusting your ability to adapt in public is not an issue,"_ Sherlock texted with a straight face.

 

 _So it isn't a trust thing,_  John reflected, wishing to hell he could hear  _how_ Sherlock was speaking those words. The modulations, the emphasis, the tone, the volume were all lost on him. He needed to get behind the words.  _Was it curiosity? Maybe…but why do I think you're here for something more...?_ John knew, however, to get an answer from Sherlock, sometimes it was best to be patient and say nothing.

 

By the time they had walked as far as Chapel Road, Sherlock showed great impatience with John's "grand gift of silence," an attribute Sherlock had highly lauded in the past. The detective lightly touched John's arm to get his full attention.  _Well?_ He asked with a raised eyebrow and an unabashedly inquisitive face. It was more than obvious that Sherlock could not possibly resist learning the results of his great experiment—John's recovery—as soon as the information was available.

 

John recognized the gleam in Sherlock's eyes and felt his answer held disappointing news. "It was a bit not good."

 

Eyes front and peering impassively into the distance, Sherlock waited until John finally decided to glance his way to mouth two words.  _Tell me._

 

"Eardrums have healed and all the physiological tests indicate I should be able to hear. Only I still can't."

 

Sherlock used his mobile to make his reply.  _"So it IS all in your head."_

 

"Sorry?" Jolted, John gave Sherlock a look of disbelief, feeling the idiot for being the last to realize it. He set his lips in a thin line, more annoyed with himself than ever. "How the  _hell_  do you know that?"

 

This text took a bit longer.  _"The past two nights, you've answered me in your sleep. I suspected you were beginning to recover when you seemed to hear Mozart."_

 

"Oh, brilliant!" John shouted with his face lifted skyward. "Everybody knows but me!" He shook his head, cleared his throat, and struggled to use humor to deal with his deep frustration. "There were times when selective hearing might not have been a bad thing around you." He ended with a dry chuckle.

 

 _"Your sleep talking proves it is not my voice you find abhorrent…."_ Sherlock winked in amusement after John had looked up from reading the text.

 

John grinned briefly before his face became serious. "You once said, 'there is nothing more stimulating than a case where everything goes against you.' Remember?"

 

Again Sherlock's lips formed a recognizable word:  _yes._ His eyes stared at a taxi heading toward them. John thought for a moment he was going to flag it down, but Sherlock didn't raise his hand.

 

"Got to admit life has been very stimulating of late," John pursed his lips thoughtfully. "And this," he cupped both ears," is going to have a bit more impact on work than a  _bloody_  limp. You can't have a deaf partner, temporary or not."

 

Sherlock blinked rapidly. His luminous eyes darkened as if he were considering what it might mean to work without John. His perplexed expression lasted a few seconds. John could hardly imagine what flashed through that head, but whether in that brief time Sherlock had found a working solution or the acceptance to face whatever challenges that lay ahead for them both, the hint of a smile appeared on his face. Carefully forming his words for John, he replied.  _Every problem has a solution._

 

After they had passed Transept Street, Sherlock again touched John's sleeve as a signal to stop. When they faced each other, Sherlock shaped every word with extra care so John would understand _. This has the qualities of being a fascinating case._

 

"You mean my hearing loss or my psychological flaws? John tempered his self-deprecation with a soft laugh.

 

Sherlock shook his head and mouthed.  _No_.

 

John watched closely at the next series of words that formed on Sherlock's full lips, and repeated what he thought he read. "The incident with the car… there was something odd about it… Huh? Is that what you think? I don't get it."

 

Tapping his index finger twice against John's temple, Sherlock gestured that John should consider the reasons.

 

"Dunno." John scratched his head thoughtfully. "The impact it had on me was decidedly unexpected. After an ordinary accident, a car fire can burn intensely, but the explosions are usually minor. I thought I was far enough away…."

 

Sherlock swiftly texted, _"That car explosion was not a result of the accident, and the child you rescued was never in the car."_

 

"Sorry?" John blinked in confusion as he viewed the text, unable to process what he was reading when the next text arrived.

 

_"You think I spent all this time getting you back on your feet for no reason? We have a viable case. Could use your help now."_

ooOOoo


	6. At the Doorstep

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A WEEK BEFORE THE CAR EXPLOSION…2 May, 2017.  
> So begins a series of chapters that cover the events leading up to the car explosion.

_**ooOOoo** _

_**GIFT OF SILENCE** _

_**ooOOoo** _

 

 

** A WEEK BEFORE THE CAR EXPLOSION…2 May, 2017 **

 

When he reached the second landing at 221B John was careful not to interrupt. Sherlock, in detective mode, was in the midst of an involved conversation, speaking quite rapidly as he paced in the center of the sitting room.

 

Listening from the threshold, John paused and waited for Sherlock to finish what seemed like a complaint about bureaucratic changes that would interfere with the future of his criminal investigations. John's patience gave way to curiosity and he peered discreetly into the flat, expecting to see Mycroft off to the side of the sitting room or Greg leaning on the worktop in the kitchen. After checking twice, John realized there was no one else present.

 

Glancing back to Sherlock, John met the detective's appraising gaze.

 

"Well?" Sherlock demanded as his only greeting. "What have  _you_  to say?"

 

"Sorry? About what?"

 

"Haven't you been listening, John?"

 

"Hang on. Were you talking to  _me_?" John wagged his head. "But I  _just_  got here?"

 

"You were late, and we've been waiting."

 

" _We_?" He fixed Sherlock with a perplexed stare. "Talking to me when I'm  _not_  here is not exactly new, but, Sherlock, the 'we' part is." John crossed his arms decisively.

 

Sherlock averted his eyes. "I was including the skull…"

 

"The  _skull_." John huffed. "Couldn't you have waited for someone who still has a pulse?"

 

"No need. Besides, you're here now. We can continue…."

 

"Wait. I've missed half of what you just said."

 

" _More_ than half," Sherlock corrected him. "But since you've indicated your complete disinterest by arriving late, it is of little consequence. Next time, come earlier." With a wave of his hand, he turned away and opened his laptop.

 

 _So that's it?_ John froze and merely nodded, keeping his mouth clamped shut. For a moment, he felt like bolting right back down the stairs.  _Again? You keep saying 'come earlier.' These are my days off from the surgery, for Christ's sake. I can do what I_  bloody _well please…._

 

_What else do you have keeping you, John? After all, there are no more family obligations to detain you …_

 

Although John wondered if this was the subtext of the detective's constant demand for promptness, Sherlock had never been so callous as to state it aloud. Within seconds of having these thoughts, John reconsidered and decided he was wrong to read into Sherlock's remark. As insensitive as Sherlock could be at times, he had neither referenced nor alluded to what had happened to John's family after the initial shock had passed. Well-meaning friends and acquaintances had consoled John for his loss whenever they saw him, but that only reopened wounds. Oddly, John had found solace in Sherlock's silence. In fact, the detective had done his best to offer John diversion. So what if his unrelenting best had meant texting John night and day about ongoing investigations? Drowning one's sorrows in work was not uncommon, but as Sherlock tended toward extremes, he had caused a virtual torrent of activity to keep them both busy between clients with cold cases from the Met.

 

And it had worked for a while, but lately John had begun to see through Sherlock's requests to come earlier, to stay longer, to spend more time at 221B. The detective no doubt believed there was a direct correlation between the success of their cases and the proximity of their living arrangements. Even if Sherlock was trying to hurry him out of his lingering mourning phase so he could return to Baker Street, John was not ready to rush back.

 

Snapping to the present, John realized Sherlock was speaking and made every effort to listen.

 

"—they're idiots! The City Council is switching off seventy-five CCTV cameras. Other countries are installing more to thwart terrorist attacks, but here, we're reducing them. Incredibly stupid measure, if anyone cared to ask me."

 

"Are you annoyed because they're switching them off or because they didn't ask you?"

 

John's smirk was met with a bemused frown. "Just so you're clear, John. Between you and the skull, the skull is less cheeky," Sherlock retorted before continuing. "With all seventy-five cameras turned off, they may be saving one million pounds a year, but it will impact a vulnerable area. Between private- and local-government operated cameras there is one camera for every thirty-two people in the UK, which means, on a typical day the average person would have been seen by seventy CCTV cameras. And do you know, John, how many of these average people  _are_  criminals?"

 

"Haven't a clue." John finally decided he'd stay and shrugged out of his coat.

 

"Almost  _a third_  of men in the UK have a criminal conviction by the age of 30, according to the Home Office."

 

"A third? That's more than I expected…" John shook his head as he hung his jacket on the peg. "Still, Sherlock, one million pounds is an awful lot to save with budget cuts and Brexit…."

 

"Crime costs  _more_ , John! The City Council is using the excuse that their cameras were not a deterrent against crime, but last year alone, 7,029 incidents were recorded by those cameras leading to 1,313 arrests."

 

"So you  _want_ the cameras  _when_  you can use them for  _your_ work, but…" John pursed his lips before he relaxed them in a slight grin. "Don't you do your best to  _avoid_  those very same cameras when you're skulking about?"

 

"I know  _how_ to avoid them. The criminal element does not…usually. And I do not  _skulk_ ," Sherlock added indignantly.

 

"Slow week, is it?"

 

"Painfully." Sherlock's voice trailed with a bit of a whinge.

 

Several cups of tea later, they had fallen into companionable silence: Leaving the stacked boxes of cold cases for another time, Sherlock had decided to work on his laptop. He became completely absorbed by a publication from Duke University that demonstrated the use of lasers to differentiate individual car paint pigments collected at hit-n-runs. However, John was not so lucky. Unable to concentrate on a  _BMJ_ article, his mind kept wandering. Growing restless, he rose from his chair and went to the window with arms clasped behind him. Try as he might to find distractions outside in the street, John's thoughts kept returning inward to the one unavoidable focus—the loss of his wife and daughter.

 

Something at street level, however, jolted him from his thoughts. A sturdy woman in her late thirties, with frizzy strawberry blonde hair pulled back in a loose ponytail, was dressed in a familiar-style blue-and-white striped tunic top with maroon piping, wearing closed white shoes and decidedly oscillating on the pavement outside  _Speedys_. The way she kept looking toward their front door, he suspected she was not waiting for her takeaway order.

 

"Sherlock?" John called over his shoulder.

 

"A client!" Sherlock declared as if he had x-ray vision and could see to the street below.

 

"Unless you called for a nurse…." John added wryly having recognized the uniform. As Mrs. Hudson's doorbell rang, he turned from the window and nearly collided with the curious detective who was now standing behind him looking beyond to the woman waiting on their doorstep.

 

Sidestepping Sherlock, John crossed toward the landing and hesitated before heading down to answer the door. "How do you know it's a client, and not someone calling on Mrs. Hudson or a post delivery for that matter?"

 

"Don't be ridiculous, John. Wrong time for the post and when she brought up my tea this morning, Mrs. Hudson's mentioned she'd be gone for the day—true, I tune her out most of the time—but I always find it newsworthy when she informs me about leaving the flat." Sherlock joined John at the landing where they both looked down the staircase. "Yes. There is an outside possibility the post was making a special drop or a caller for Mrs. Hudson was unaware of her schedule, but it was your body language at the window, John, which gave it away."

 

"How so?"

 

"I watched you. First you were lost in thought, and then you took notice of something that surprised you, but yet didn't alarm you. And I've observed often enough that when you think there's a client, you scratch the back of your head. You see, it was merely a quick process of elimination to determine the reason for your reaction. And as it turned out, your instincts were right."

 

The doorbell rang again.

 

"Good," Sherlock grinned with a gleam in his eye. "Unusually persistent. We have a client with a problem likely to be more interesting than the usual infidelity and lost pet rubbish."

 

Immediately, John descended to let her in.

 

ooOOOoo

ooOOOoo


	7. The Nurse's Story

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Still a week before the car explosion…and moments after the previous chapter. (A.N.: Due to the subject matter of the case chapters and some language, the rating of this story is M.)

**Gift of Silence**

ooOOOoo

 

 

**Still a week before the car explosion…and moments after the previous chapter.**

 

ooOOOoo

 

Sherlock had been correct. The prospective client's hesitancy on the pavement had nothing to do with a love affair. Rather, the oncology nurse from the Royal Marsden Hospital grimaced with contempt about the subject of her "missing-person case," which she sarcastically framed with air quotes.

 

"Couldn't stop thinking about it. But even if I can't figure it out, it's the sort of thing you're an expert at, Mr. Holmes, so I thought I'd come and see what you thought." Jill Hardings took the strategically positioned client chair that had been offered her and spoke with a mild Yorkshire accent. Her hazel-colored irises seemed to change hues as she pivoted her head first in Sherlock's direction, then in John's. Although John felt inclined to listen as he leaned against the fireplace mantel, Sherlock dropped into his chair and assumed a demeanor he sometimes used during client interviews—the one that appeared as if he was only marginally listening, if at all.

 

"Two years ago, my cousin Meghan who lives in the States swears her little boy was nearly molested by a hematologist in a New York cancer infusion center. She was sitting at her son Aidan's bedside—he was undergoing treatment for leukemia—when this 'trusted' doctor was on rounds."

 

John politely returned her eye contact, although he could feel his stomach twisting—anything to do with abuse or the sexual assault of children was a crime he had always found abhorrent, but doctors getting away with exploiting patients, something he had only heard infrequently, would make his blood boil. Given his current state, with his emotions being triggered by the slightest provocations, he wasn't sure he could listen with his normal restraint and detachment. It took great force of will for John to remain where he stood by the mantel and not leave and let Sherlock handle this by himself.

 

Receiving no social cues from Sherlock to continue, Jill naturally started directing all her remarks to John. "This Dr. W. F. Prius told Meghan he needed to conduct a preliminary examination on her seven-year old and asked her to step back. It didn't strike her as odd at first when he pulled the privacy curtain between them because she could still hear them. He asked the boy if where he was touching hurt. Aidan answered truthfully 'no' until suddenly he shouted with alarm 'ow!' and there was a smacking sound. At the same time she heard something drop and saw a fancy pen roll outside the curtain. Even as she stooped to pick it up, Dr. Prius shoved back the curtain and somewhat brusquely demanded she hand it over. His anxious demeanor and tone caught her by surprise. As she fingered the heavy pen, she felt an odd indentation and noticed a small circle—like a lens on a camera phone—in the cap. Before she could examine it more closely, Prius grabbed it from her hand and said he was late and hurried out. Aidan looked upset and told her, 'I hit him, Mommy. I stopped him like you told me…when, when—I didn't want  _him_  to touch me…I didn't like his pen either,' and then he began to cry."

 

John felt his throat close. "Disturbing…," was all he could manage to scrape out.

 

" _Disturbing!_ " Jill cried. "Meghan was decidedly  _furious_  when she realized what nearly happened in her own presence, and as you can imagine, she expressed her outrage and reported Prius to the Center and Hospital Administrators."

 

"How did they handle it?" An uneasy feeling gripped John, and he shifted his weight from foot to foot. He was all too aware that on those occasions when a doctor might be accused of sexual misconduct, the hospitals and health care organizations preferred to brush off accusations or quietly push the doctor out without filing a report with the police or licensing agencies. More often, these same administrators might work out private agreements, downgrading the "deviant's" offenses and attributing it to a momentary lapse of judgement, even though in the strictly legal sense, it was a crime. The real crime in these cases was that the doctor was allowed to continue practicing.

 

 

"Turns out there may have been other incidents reported, but Dr. Prius had never been officially coded for sexual misconduct. However the hospital administrators assured her they were taking the allegations seriously and would take action. Meghan hoped it would lead to his suspension and revocation of his medical license."

 

 

"Did it?" John stepped closer until he stood beside the seated Sherlock, who of course had said nothing so far.

 

 

The interview was following a preset routine, the one in which Sherlock assumed a blasé pose. This was John's signal to take the lead in questioning the client and deal with all the insufferable social interactions, until the great detective had observed enough about the client and made his decision about the case. Once Sherlock arrived at a conclusion, he would jump up and declare his intentions to accept or dismiss the case, leaving no room for argument. Sometimes he solved the damn case right there on the spot—at which point the clients would completely forget about John, the man with whom they had been talking the whole while.

 

 

John had privately coined this phenomenon "The Watson Eclipse." After all, he would always be hidden in the shadow of Sherlock's genius—which was fine. Long ago he had realized they did not need to have the same skills to be good partners. They found value in each other's differences. It  _had_  been all good, until recently. In the aftermath of the cruelest betrayal, when he lost all chance of a happy family life, John was also losing heart and struggling to bring his talents to bear. And now this case…

 

 

Swallowing a bitterness that rose in his throat, John masked his distaste for the nurse's story. "So did the board suspend the doctor and report his misconduct?"

 

 

"It's unclear what actually happened. The clinic and affiliate hospital wouldn't mention what follow-up action they took. All Meghan knows for sure from the medical staff, who were as shocked as she was, was that Dr. Prius never came back the next day." Jill stated flatly. "In fact, he never came back at all. He skipped out. Eventually, the federal authorities were called…"

 

John cleared his throat several times and summoned his conciliatory tone. "As a nurse yourself, you are aware that there are doctors, nurses, health professionals, all kinds of people in every walk of life who fall far short of their professional ethics. This is certainly a disturbing story on all counts, and my sympathies are with you and your cousin's family. Believe me, I completely understand how  _helpless_  one feels when one's trust is betrayed, especially by someone who is well-regarded…."

 

He thought his voice sounded normal, but obviously, Sherlock did not think so. Like someone tuning in a different radio station, the detective had switched his focus from the woman and tilted his head as if to get a better reception on John's wavelength, not something John had wanted. His private life had become a living hell, exacerbated by his bouts of uncontrolled rage, and whilst he was handling his growing volatility by resuming therapy with Ella, his biggest challenge had been to keep his personal troubles off Sherlock's radar—at least as much as humanly possible. Whether Sherlock had noticed his moodiness—and how could he not?—he had neither criticized John for his lack of focus nor spoken about the cause of John's malaise. Perhaps he assumed John would just get over it soon enough, like he had other "mishaps" in their past. Inexplicably, as long as John could skirt the spotlight of Sherlock's scrutiny, he felt less exposed.

 

Pointedly ignoring Sherlock, John resumed the conversation. "But, frankly, Ms. Hardings, I don't see why you're telling us something that happened two years ago and in the States."

 

"I'm not finished yet. There's more. You see, it turns out that Prius  _did_ have another serious strike on record against him for something similar. About fifteen years before his attempt with Aidan, Prius had been apprehended for a 'sordid' act. This was not in the States, but I don't know where he was then—studying abroad maybe? But in his defense, his solicitors advocated that he was merely trying to help a drug-addicted homosexual child. The report summarized that he was a caring medical student who happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time and did not fully understand his healthcare responsibilities. After agreeing to psychiatric treatment—which they deemed he completed successfully—Prius was allowed to continue his studies and graduate with his medical certification. Unfortunately, as this occurred out of the country and was judged "an anomaly," it was not brought to the attention of the hospitals that subsequently hired him, including the ones in the States. For all we know, Prius could have been doing this for years and not got caught until Meghan and some other parents reported him. Maybe he'd managed to fly under the radar for so long that he got bold."

 

Slowly John sank into his chair. If what Jill suspected was true, he had to agree. No known science has been able to  _convert_  pedophiles into non-pedophiles. Other than helping pedophiles develop the skills they need to live a healthy, offense-free life—sometimes this meant chemically or surgically blocking their sex drives—otherwise, sexual predators could not be "cured." More sickening to him personally, however, was when the sexual predator was a doctor.

 

" _This_  time," Jill sighed with frustration, "because Meghan complained so much and went to the press, the hospital authorities pursued the other allegations that were popping up. Once the police were contacted, they went to Prius' home where he lived alone—no surprise, he wasn't there—and confiscated his desktop computer; it possessed more than 16,000 images of child porn. Some photos he may have acquired through a small camera. Meghan thinks probably from  _that_  pen."

 

"This involves us, how?" Sherlock addressed her irritably with narrowed eyes. "So far you have presented us with a clear-cut case of malicious medical malpractice and child sexual abuse in another country. I suspect you have more, or you would not be wasting our time with matters that concern the FBI, the American Medical Association, and the American judicial system about a breach of medical ethics. Is there a point?"

 

"You solve mysteries! Well, here's the mystery!" Jill snapped back, her face flushed pink at Sherlock's abruptness. "The last time Dr. Prius had been seen, he was heading off to a Conference in South America. Some sort of annual International Cancer Consortium in Guyana…but he never showed up at the conference, even though he had gone through customs at Cheddi Jagan International Airport, and checked in at the Guyana Marriott Hotel. That was  _two years_  ago!"

 

The nurse's brows furrowed with annoyance when Sherlock did not seem impressed.

 

"Not mystery enough?" she said with a touch of defiance in her voice. "Well, it gets better."

 

"I should  _hope_  so." Sherlock quipped with an eyeroll.

 

Jill glared at him but did not back down. "He never checked out! He left his baggage in the hotel; his clothes were scattered all over the room, like someone was searching for something. But without the doctor present, the police or hotel management couldn't determine if anything had been stolen. The authorities found no evidence of foul play and never found a body. Going on two years now as I said. Rumors have it that the doctor had charted a yacht and fell overboard, but again no one knows for sure. There was no evidence to follow, and the local police were stumped."

 

"I presume he did not contact the nearest Guyana Embassy, consulate or tourist office before departing," Sherlock leant forward in his seat, tented his fingers against his lips, and knitted his brows as if intrigued by this new angle. John, on the other hand, found everything terribly distressing.

 

"Nope! He vanished without a trace. Officially, they closed the case after a few months. He was presumed dead."

 

"You don't expect us to travel to Guyana, do you?" John's tone was atypically caustic, but the idea of the case seemed to be pressing all the wrong buttons. He had no sympathies for the plight of this appalling doctor—whatever horrid thing had happened to him in Guyana. He did not like being excluded in the decision-making—which Sherlock seemed clearly about ready to do—and in general there had been too much going on in his life; he wasn't sure he had the wherewithal for such an emotionally grating case at that point.

 

John rose from his armchair and turned toward his friend, swinging his left arm behind him and pointing toward Jill. "Sherlock, her case…,  _this_  case…is beyond our reach…."

 

"No, John." Sherlock said quietly as his stood, grabbed both of John's shoulders and gently pushed his friend aside, all the while looking past him toward Jill who had also risen from her chair. "She's  _found_  him already," Sherlock interjected eagerly, his face filled with a triumphant grin.

 

"Yes! Well, I _suspect_  he's here. I mean in London; at the RM, where I work."

 

"Sorry?" John spun to face Jill, his eyes narrowed by skepticism, his fists clenching. "At the RM? In what capacity?"

 

"I don't know if he actually  _works_  here, except he seemed to know his way around. He could be working as something other than a clinician in the hospital. I don't even know what he looks like."

 

"Then what makes you think it's Prius?" Despite the anxious twist in his gut, John made great effort to restore the calm in his voice. "We've got plenty of homegrown perverts.  _Your_  suspect doesn't have to be the same person."

 

Sherlock nodded in agreement. "Globally, there are at least two million sex offenders that we know of, and those are just the officially  _registered_  ones. Not all of them are pedophiles, of course."

 

"Intuition." Jill shook her head and shared a wry grin. "Not scientific, I know. Apparently, with the financial assets he accrued and hid from authorities, he could afford to go and live anywhere. Why not here? Still, if it hadn't been for my cousin keeping me posted on the latest turns in the investigation, I would never have batted an eye about a recent incident at the RM. It all just clicked with me two days ago."

 

"What happened two days ago?" Frowning with his head down as if anticipating her answer, Sherlock paced in a small circle with his arms locked behind him.

 

"Well, that's when a boy on my ward was nearly molested by stranger posing as a doctor…. Hospital security is all over it, but they're stymied by the whole thing." The pitch of her voice rose with concern. "After scouring the hospital, they haven't been able to locate the man the boy had described—a man with black hair and mustache! It is vague, too vague. And of course, they're beginning to wonder if the boy isn't making up the story since the guy seems to have vanished into thin air."

 

As neither John nor Sherlock responded, she continued with a shrug. "However, I believe the boy. Jeremy is a smart 9-year-old, undergoing treatment for leukemia and currently in remission, and like many kids fighting cancer, he is wise for is age. When they get sick so young, many of these kids get pretty savvy about their treatments and aren't afraid to ask the hard questions."

 

Sherlock continued pacing, whilst John stood guard with his hands clasped behind his back and his eyes on his partner.

 

"Anyway," Jill was now speaking faster, her voice rising with excitement, "What Jeremy claims is that a doctor he didn't recognize visited him and wanted to examine him. Coincidentally it was around shift-change so staff was busy and Jeremy's roommate was still out for a PET scan. Jeremy's mum had gone to pick up her youngest from the childminder, and once she settled her with a neighbor she expected to be back for the dinner hour." Jill paused and stared toward the windows overlooking Baker Street, before recounting the rest of the incident. "Jeremy says the doctor pulled the privacy curtain around his bed and told him to take everything off. But the way he approached Jeremy made the boy aware something was wrong—there was no nurse-chaperone present to assist per usual procedure and the doctor pulled out a pen even though he wasn't carrying a chart—pretty observant for a kid. Jeremy refused to cooperate and rang his bedside alarm. Immediately, the 'doctor' ducked out of the curtain and was gone before we could respond. When I arrived and drew back the curtain, Jeremy was trembling and calling for his mum."

 

"Again, this doesn't mean it's the man from the States." John shook his head.

 

"True," Jill countered, "but what if this  _is_  the same guy? The way he acted was  _exactly_  the same as Prius! That means he's still up to no good, and there may be a trail of slip-ups, here and there, like with Aidan and Jeremy. Although, he's probably getting away with much, much, more, since he seems to prefer the younger kids who can't speak up or don't even understand what's happening to them." Jill's face was stricken by the staggering truth to her words and her eyes welled with tears.

 

Quickly, she wiped her eyes and grinned away her embarrassment. "I know it sounds like coincidence. But this guy used a pen too. Jeremy said the doctor held the pen up like a stick, not like someone who planned to write with it. Meghan told me that the FBI had determined from the images on the confiscated computer that Prius used a spy pen to get pictures of his naked patients."

 

"So there is sufficient evidence against him, once he is apprehended." Sherlock nodded with satisfaction. "Have you brought this information to the police?"

 

"I tried, but they told me this isn't enough to go on since no one can prove what the doctor was about to do with the pen or whatever it was. I just can't let it go; I can't do this to Meghan." Jill locked her eyes on John. "You know what I'm saying, Dr. Watson." She then sat back down in the chair as though relieved to unburden herself of her suspicion and sighed. She looked first a Sherlock, then at John, then back to Sherlock because both had gone silent.

 

"Well, Mr. Holmes, will you take this missing-person case? Will you find out if this  _bloody_ predator in the RM is the missing Prius. I want you to find him, Mr. Holmes, not just for me or Meghan and Aidan or Jeremy, but because there's a whole world of us out there who hate with a passion anyone who does what he's done to these ill children!" Looking as though she wasn't about to budge from the chair until she got a yes for an answer, she crossed her arms, and fixed her focus on Sherlock.

 

Knowing Sherlock, John recognized the introspective facial expression indicating the detective was roaming his Mind Palace, and as he watched Sherlock mentally pull relevant threads of the case together, John felt himself unraveling. His protective mechanism that normally kept him clinically detached—even for a case about the sexual abuse of innocent children—was failing him miserably. Years ago, his PTSD afflicted him with the sensation of bombs exploding around him, but now, wounded by recent loss, John felt bombarded by exploding emotions. Without waiting for Sherlock's answer—which he knew was going to be "yes"—John swiftly crossed the room, lifted his jacket off the peg, and abruptly left the flat.

 

ooOOOoo

 


	8. In Russell Square Garden

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Still a week before the car explosion… and more than an hour after the Nurse's Story.

**Gift of Silence**

ooOOOoo

 

**_Still a week before the car explosion… and more than an hour after the Nurse's Story._ **

 

ooOOOoo

After dashing from 221B, John did not actually know his destination, but when he found himself in Russell Square Garden a half-hour later, the urgency to continue running ceased.

 

Late afternoon had settled on a mild spring day. School children were skipping home alongside their mothers taking a brief jaunt through the green space enclosed by giant sycamores. Heavy morning rains had dispersed and shafts of sunlight drizzled through the wet canopy making the fountain sparkle. The scene was in such stark contrast to John's mood that it seemed decidedly surreal.

 

He had taken a seat on a dried park bench, his lungs no longer heaving from his anxiety and his hasty retreat from Baker Street. There he watched several giggling toddlers splash through puddles as they chased the pigeons attempting to bathe. For nearly an hour he sat, quietly nursing a tepid coffee he had purchased from the park café upon his arrival, but the bitterness he tasted made the otherwise decent brew difficult to swallow.

 

Surrounded by happy human chatter, the squeals of children, and birdsong calling overhead, John closed his eyes and merely listened. Although life had no reset buttons, this place, this very spot, had once helped  _reset_ him years ago and allowed him to begin his civilian life in earnest. It was here that he had accidentally met Mike Stamford and made a preliminary decision to try and find a flat mate. Had he and Mike passed each other like strangers, had Mike not recognized him, things would have been so different.

 

Recalling the excitement of his first case with Sherlock improved John's mood.

 

John opened his eyes to the persistent rustling of a newspaper which intruded on his memories. His current bench-mate to his left, a portly, grey-haired gent in tie and suit jacket, had just finished folding up his paper. After stifling a soft yawn, he stood, loosened the knees of his trousers, and tucked the newspaper under his arm whilst mumbling to himself. Slowly he crossed toward John's right, limping slightly on only one side, as he headed toward the café.

 

 _Gout,_  John diagnosed as he tracked the limping man with his eyes. The older man had barely left, when John felt someone quite swiftly claim the seat beside him, nor could he control his double-take when he realized who it was.

 

Sherlock had found him.

 

"Ordinarily, I'm the one with bad behavior," the baritone voice confided from the side of his mouth. "You know, the usual good-cop,  _rude-_ cop routine we have with potential clients?" As he sat beside John on the bench, Sherlock was a prime example of someone who did not visit the park for relaxation. Rather, his back was ramrod straight, his shoulders squared. He looked uncomfortable and deliberately kept his eyes forward.

 

John exhaled a sigh. "What if I fancied a change to 'the usual'? Now that wouldn't do, would it?" Spotting the gout-ridden man, John watched intently as he slowly made his way out of the park.

 

Remaining quiet for several minutes, both John and Sherlock kept their faces turned away from each other. Whilst they did not speak, the silence they shared became an opportunity to listen—to nearby casual conversations, the gushing fountain, the muted traffic passing the park. Yet, they both were aware that there was more to be heard in what remained unspoken between them. Indeed, John's question suggested a blatant shift in the scheme of things—one that Sherlock had never considered before.

 

Finally, Sherlock had had enough silence and turned toward John.

 

Feeling his stare, John tilted his head looking askance at his friend. "What?" He knew his feigned nonchalance was likely to be ineffective at deflecting Sherlock's scrutiny.

 

"I have  _not_  accepted the case." Sherlock caught John's eyes and held them with his own.

 

"Huh?" Startled, John was transfixed before he blinked free and swallowed. "That's a surprise."

 

"Well, I do think we  _ought to_  accept it,…" Sherlock squinted as if taking a bead on the Duke of Bedford statue. "I told the nurse that, until I discussed it with my partner, I couldn't answer her. ' _So unlike him to skip out like that_ ….' However, she was quite sympathetic about your moodiness…good attributes for a nurse, don't you think?" A half-grin teased his lips.

 

Sherlock's attempt at humor fell flat. John crumpled the empty coffee cup, set it beside him on the bench, and looked down at his hands. "You don't need me on this investigation…."

 

"That may well be true," Sherlock replied, "at least on some cases. But, when it comes to the profession of medicine, I rely on  _my_  expert for guidance. Your advice would be useful in determining what sort of behavior should or shouldn't be expected from a doctor's bedside manner. I could do this without you, yes, but I  _prefer_  your assistance to solitary work …." Sherlock looked down at his own hands.

 

"Heh! Listen, Sherlock. I'm not—"

 

"—You  _are_ …"

 

"—Not ready for something like this."  _Any case involving kids_ was clearly implied within the subtext of his pause. "The best I can do is lend my assistance with your other cases and be your sounding board …."

 

"… stimulating…"

 

"Shut up!  _I'm not finished_ —"

 

"…a conductor of light…"

 

"— _Shut up!_ " Distressed, John leaned forward, planted his elbows on his knees and rested his chin in his hands. He continued with his voice lowered to a whisper. "Not anymore, especially not if I can't keep focused. It can  _put_  you in  _bloody_  danger." Sighing, he rubbed his face and sat upright again as he continued in a hoarse whisper. "Things…. have changed a bit. I cannot be fully 'present and accounted' for…and I haven't been for a while now…since…since…,  _Hell!_  I shouldn't  _have_  to explain. This should come as no surprise to you. You're the world's  _most_ observant man!"

 

Another spell of silence followed and lasted for several minutes. John's attention was drawn to a little girl romping with high steps and splashing, her infectious laughter prompting snickers from her delighted mother. Sitting quietly beside him, Sherlock seemed to be studying the assortment of humanity inhabiting the park, but John knew Sherlock was mostly focused on waiting for his answer.

 

_Might be a long wait._

 

For a while John was content to watch the mother interact with her daughter until they had finished playing. Gently clasping the little girl's hand, the woman walked toward a buggy, lifted her daughter up, and with cooing sounds to sooth her, strapped the child in—like he and Mary would do with their daughter. John could not quite speak until the two had strolled out of sight beyond the park.

 

 

To shut out the painful memories that triggered an angry flash-over, John closed his eyes and took several deep breaths, but he could not shake the tremendous injustice he felt. He had lost his chance at a family whilst some  _bloody_  psycho persisted in abusing children with impunity. The thought became unbearable and suddenly the park was stuffy, oppressive, suffocating. He could no longer listen to the sounds of laughing children and happy parents. Rising from the bench, John inclined his head suggesting they walk a bit.

 

Springing into action, Sherlock set a quick pace for them out of the park. He always took the lead—always—and John  _most_  always allowed it. Ordinarily, to keep stride with Sherlock meant John needed to double his steps. He couldn't this time. After depositing his rubbish in the bin, John felt weighed down by his mood, impeded by an unusual heaviness. Expecting John to catch up, however, Sherlock neither slowed down nor looked back as the distance widened between them.

 

In that instant, John could have decided to go his separate way, quietly, but the call to duty rather than retreat was the greater need, and he mustered the reserve to advance. With quicken steps John swiftly gained on Sherlock to be by his side.

 

Clearing his throat, John was the first to speak. "A case like this makes me  _bloody-hell_ livid, Sherlock, for the children and their families. Whoever this man is, for the sake of argument let's say it is Prius, he is  _still_  a predatory physician taking advantage of a doctor's special privilege, relying on the trusting nature of his patients—children—who cannot defend themselves when he has them disrobe in a private room and does whatever his deviant urges require. Yes—I do want this  _fucking_  bastard captured—I don't even care if he's the same man or  _another_  bloody pervert who ought to be locked up where, God help me, he gets a little taste of his own medicine."

 

Sherlock nodded as they headed toward Guilford Street. "Despite being prone to exaggeration and her excessive yammering, the nurse was remarkably unhelpful in providing us with  _correct_ information, but still John, her story sounded familiar, didn't it?"

 

"They all sound familiar to me. It never changes. Whatever discipline measures Prius should have received for his alleged sexual misconduct, it was obviously not a deterrent." John grumbled until he reconsidered Sherlock's question. "What do you mean?"

 

"Three months back, we came across a seventeen-year-old Met cold case about a missing child, a little girl named Heather, up by Cambridge…."

 

"Yes. I remember." Abruptly, John stopped walking. "We passed—well,  _I_  passed on that one." John glanced away and then down towards his feet. "And you decided to do the same. Or did you?"

 

"I reconsidered. For future reference, I read through the report…." Sherlock kept his voice at a low volume so as not to attract attention from passers-by. John noted they were standing outside the wrought-iron fence surrounding the Coram Fields Park Memorial playground. The private park sign specified  _"adults may only enter if accompanied by a child."_  Given their topic of discussion, the location struck John as ironic.

 

John suspected Sherlock didn't see the irony as he continued relating the facts of the seventeen-year-old case. "It involved Francis P. Willard, a second-year at a hospital in Suffolk. It seemed as a favor to the families who 'requested' it, Willard had been seeing some of his attending's cancer patients out-of-hours, on his own, and without his superior's knowledge. Initially, his fellows thought well of him for his volunteering to help out the disadvantaged, but when Heather went missing, all his 'good works' came to an abrupt halt. His attending, learning what he had been doing, forbade him from seeing  _anyone_  out of hours. Later, the police questioned Willard as it was thought this little girl might have been one of those out-of-hours patients. Finding no connections to Willard, however, the police explored other avenues, but came up empty. The girl's parents were under suspicion, but eventually they too were cleared. As you know, the girl was never found."

 

Listening as best he could, John quashed the roar of rage that filled his ears — _How many of these waste-of-breath, sexual deviant doctors were there?_  —but the mask that he showed his friend betrayed little of his thoughts.

 

"In that open file on Heather," Sherlock continued, "there was a newspaper clipping—a separate article from several years later about this same doctor—showing that the police had remained suspicious about him even though their initial investigation turned up nothing. In this later article, Willard had made a staff member suspicious, but her accusations that he was performing ' _criminal, intimate examinations'_  were expunged as he always had a plausible explanation whenever his conduct was challenged. Interestingly enough, F. P. Willard's full name is Francis  _Prius_  Willard."

 

"Hang on! Aidan's doctor was W. F.  _Prius!"_  John's eyes widened.

 

" _Willard_  Francis  _Prius_ , to be precise. Nurse Hardings told me after you left," Sherlock reluctantly admitted. "It fits the timeline. Two years ago Aidan was nearly assaulted by Prius. The nurse said fifteen years  _before_ that, the same man had been accused. Except it's all circumstantial nonsense right now. We don't have hard evidence."

 

" _Bloody Christ!_  Can't be all coincidence, though!" John stamped his foot and rolled his eyes skyward in exasperation. "Okay, so maybe Meghan and Jill did  _not_  have all their facts straight but this is hard to ignore—they thought it was an overzealous medical student who was preying on drug-addicted homosexual teens." John felt a rush of fury, and his left shoulder constricted with tension. "But is it possible? Is this the  _real_ story—a licensed doctor targeting disadvantaged or vulnerable patients—children with cancer?"

 

Growling under his breath, John's agitation increased. It was unthinkable, which was why no one believed it could happen and why the sex offenders got away with it. Fists clenching for a fight, John needed to punch something. Instead, he drew in a deep breath and tried to recover his rationale to offset his wrath. When he spoke again, his voice was just a bit shaky. "It's the slimmest connection, a remote similarity, but do you think there  _is_  some credence to Jill Hardings' suspicion?"

 

For a moment, Sherlock eyes grew distant as if there were something more he had wanted to add, but instead he shifted his gaze towards the traffic, idly tracking a lorry as he pondered his answer. When his focus returned to John, he seemed to have become closed off, detached, but firm about his conclusion. "I know I've declared it a mistake to theorize before you have all the evidence. It biases the judgment. And whilst it is tempting to twist the facts to suit the theories, I am eager to collect the data to prove or disprove her suspicion. That is the best and only method."

 

John nodded his agreement.

 

"Well!" Removing the heaviness from his voice, Sherlock rubbed his hands together. "To start, I believe this 'doctor' who visited Jeremy was wearing a disguise, a black wig and fake mustache which he removed before he was picked up by hospital cameras. We might be looking for a clean shaven man who is probably balding." Sherlock paused. When he spoke again his tone had slightly shifted from "matter-of-fact" to encouraging. "You know I abhor repeating myself," he continued, "but I  _will_  say this again, I could use your assistance—"

 

"—Why? You already know who he is, and I'm sure you'll be able to figure everything else out in a matter of hours; I'm superfluous, merely there to be your audience." John was doing his best to talk himself out of involvement in the case. It so outraged him on an irrational level that he could imagine pulverizing the bastard, if he ever got his hands on the pervert, for committing such a grotesque betrayal. That uncontrolled urge scared him.

 

Vexation creased Sherlock's brows. His lips tightened as if he wanted to hold in his deepest frustration. Glancing up and down Guilford Street, he waited for several approaching couples to walk past. After, he turned toward John with a serious face and a fierce radiance in his eyes and spoke with measured care. "Being a detective requires an infinite capacity for 'taking pains' during an investigation, but John, my capacity for your pigheadedness on this subject has nearly reached its limit. Yes. You  _are_  an audience, but an  _invaluable_  one. No. You are  _not_  superfluous. And do  _not_  suggest that my two-year hiatus supports your opinion to the contrary. I could easily argue that the opposite is true, that since my return, I have been  _superfluous_  in your life!"

 

Sherlock's anger reached John's ears, but his words conveyed a strain on their friendship John had failed to consider until now.

 

It  _was_  true.

 

The timing of Sherlock's resurrection—the  _"don't be dead"_  promise John had extracted at the grave site—had been fulfilled at the most inopportune moment, at a time when John finally attempted to get on with his life. It had taken him nearly two agonizing years to recover from the crippling and devastating blow of losing both his best friend and the wonderful, dangerous, fascinating, intoxicating life he and Sherlock had built for themselves. Until he met Mary, John had never thought he'd get over it. When Mary offered him a chance to begin again, John leapt at the opportunity to try and find contentment in an ordinary life. It was time to move on, even if he could never forget what he had with Sherlock or entirely stop grieving that loss.

 

The immense shock of Sherlock's return, however, hit John like a sledge hammer. Intense rage at being duped, being kept in the  _bloody_  dark, had been John's initial reaction, even though deep down— _well, not so deep down_ —he was euphoric that his friend was alive. Under the smokescreen of his stubbornness, John had tried his ridiculous best to hide his joy and relief. To keep a safe distance, he channeled his justifiable anger at being deluded and abandoned by the man he trusted the most. Gradually, thanks to Mary, John had overcome his hurt feelings—and after the whole Moriarty scheme became water under the bridge, at least that's what he had apparently managed to get Sherlock to believe—life somehow, went on and Sherlock settled precariously into  _his_  life again. Or had he?

 

As thankful as John was to have  _both_  Mary and Sherlock, his life also  _had_  become complicated. It never came to a full-out a tug-of-war between them, but he often felt his obligations to them both pulled him in two directions. Yet, when he compared this abundance of good fortunes, having  _two_ loved ones in his life, with his lonely days as an invalided soldier living in a bedsit in London, John repeatedly told himself he was a lucky man, that everything was fine, and that he should make the most of it.

 

So, for a short time after, John had found himself straddling the best of both worlds; he had a loving wife with a child on the way and a fast friendship that defied definitions. And while it all appeared fine, it soon became apparent to  _the friends_  that a beloved wife was a husband's foremost responsibility, and more so a child. Without petulance, Sherlock had acquiesced to the rightful place of the Watson family, whilst going to extremes on John's behalf, often putting himself in harm's way to give John the life he seemed to have wanted.

 

The life John had, until five months ago.

 

 _Superflous?_ It all suddenly clicked in John's memory: Sherlock's furtive retreat from the wedding and his increased drug use thereafter were just some signs of isolation, of feeling superfluous to John. The man had risked bleeding out to ensure the Watson marriage. To keep Mary's assassin past secret, he had assassinated Magnussen  _for_ her, with full knowledge of the consequences for such a crime; he had nearly overdosed on the jet back from exile, not to mention his general protectiveness to keep the Watsons from harm, staying alert to possible jeopardy—even though, in the end, it was to no avail.

 

Torn by this revelation, John realized he been so wrapped up in himself, and later his personal grief, that it hadn't occurred to him to consider how his family life with Mary, as well as their loss, would have affected Sherlock.

 

Clearly, John had been blind.  _"You see but you don't observe."_   _Goddamnit_!

 

Up until this moment, John had operated on the assumption that Sherlock always took  _what_  he needed,  _when_  he needed it, from the world around him. Nor did he seem to care if it required being abrasive, demanding, and arrogant to accomplish his goals. He had at his command the logic of the greatest scientists and philosophers, the talents of the most accomplished artists and musicians, the athleticism of Olympic champions, the recklessness of the most devious pirates, and the incredible eye for minutiae that justified the title of world's only consulting detective. As long as that massive brain—likely the swiftest thinking machine possessed by a human—was focused on a challenge, John thought Sherlock had everything he wanted.

 

But maybe there  _was_  something more he wanted, something more than just intellectual stimulation. What had Sherlock just said moments ago? "I  _prefer_  your assistance to solitary work."

 

Despite its complexity and circumspect formulation, the gist of Sherlock's statement was simple and moving:  _I want_ you  _by my side._

 

And John wanted to be there. Feeling awkward with this realization, John met Sherlock's glower with an accusing smirk. " _You_ , superflous?  _No, no, no._ Don't give me that. Never! More like intrusive, meddling... attention-getting even when out of sight—even more importantly, when you were out of touch ... you see, that argument can go both ways, mate. The more you pulled away, the more effort it required to reel you back in. We worried constantly..." John faltered after hearing he had used the plural and turned away. Neither of them needed a reminder of all that right now.

 

More silence ensued until John swallowed and dispelled his regrets with a wave of his hand. "Maybe I haven't figured out where my place is right now or how to put things right again," John acknowledged before resuming their walk, "but I  _am_  working on finding the reset button."

 

"Could the reset button entail accepting this case? Exposure therapy of sorts?" Sherlock prompted, his irritation replaced by eagerness.

 

"Not too fond of this whole case, but you make a hard sell, and despite my lingering objections, I guess it could."

"Good. ' _Kindness is in our power,_ _even when fondness is not.’”_

"Who said that? It sounds familiar."

"Samuel Johnson. A very intelligent man if you believe his Boswell."

ooOOoo

ooOOoo


	9. One Day Before the Car Explosion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ongoing investigation: Sherlock and John have spent six days investigation the Nurse's Case

**_ooOOoo_ **

**_GIFT OF SILENCE_ **

 

ooOOoo

**The investigation is under way.**

8888***8888

 

"Nurse Hardings was wrong on one account, John," Sherlock scoffed imperiously as he stood on the sofa and pinned another photo to his information wall.

 

"Just  _one_?" John set their takeaway dinner down on the kitchen table, pleased he had made good time after work and even managed not to miss any of Sherlock's updates. Although the aroma of chow mein, stir fry vegetables, and dumplings stimulated his stomach's rumblings, it did nothing to entice Sherlock away from the information wall. Tempted to rip open a container and eat whilst standing up before the meal got cold, John chose to wait, his curiosity piqued by what had changed since his last visit the previous evening. After one long, wistful sniff to sustain him, John joined Sherlock in the sitting room.

 

When he had gained a full view of the wall, however, John stared past Sherlock in quiet amazement, his hunger nearly forgotten. The flocked, dark-chocolate fleur-de-lys wallpaper was covered by maps, notes, cloth, and photos, over which colorful strings of yarn were crisscrossed, wound around pushpins to show connections among events, people, locations—the result of nearly six full days of research. It was not unlike a piece of abstract art, except John knew this combination of materials, stretching as wide as the sofa beneath it and nearly as far as the Smiley face, was the genius-mind at work. Sherlock had pieced together an astounding history of one man's surreptitious trek across continents.

 

"Of course, the nurse was mistaken about many less-relevant things," Sherlock explained, "but that this missing person just disappeared. No. There's always something left behind.  _Nobody_ vanishes without a trace —"

 

As if he had been brutally slammed against a wall, John lost his breath.

 

"Nobody  _vanishes without a trace_ …" was the very phrase the Colchester coroner had used to preface his final report about the terrible fire on New Year's Eve that had claimed John's wife and daughter, "but this is one of those cases in which the victims' remains at fatal fire scenes are typically difficult to detect, recover and handle…." the report had gone on for five pages.

 

Suddenly hearing Sherlock echo those words detonated the mine field of buried memories that John had been struggling to avoid—about how his family had died. In the next heartbeat his mind flew to the coroner's findings on the  _trace_  remains that had been sifted from the ashes. The report indicated that, as customary with high-heat fires, they had been compromised; the bone fragments and teeth of mother and daughter had been physically and chemically changed, there had been a degradation of DNA, and the morphological indicators that were critical for the anthropometric analysis to give him positive proof had been altered.

 

This all meant that John would be denied the absolute certainty of their identities, and that he, along with the authorities, would be forced to accept an official conclusion based on circumstantial evidence—that his wife and daughter had perished in the flames, "burnt beyond recognition." Their New Year's holiday at the quaint, single-family, Grove Farm country cottage—that Mary had rented for the week—had literally gone up in flames several hours before John had arrived by the late evening train. All that remained had been the merest trace, and there had been no comfort in that.

 

_If I had been there... No! Cannot do this right now!_

 

Grappling silently with his gut-wrenching reaction to Sherlock's otherwise innocent remark, John struggled to shut off all thoughts, to turn off all emotions, and to conceal his weakness before the detective turned around.

 

Unaware of the emotional turmoil occurring behind him, Sherlock continued. "There will  _always_  be traces, except, of course, if one has been chemically dissolved in a vat of corrosives." He paused and tilted his head as if considering something before resuming. "It would be considerably harder—maybe human gallstones and dentures and teeth could be found in the sludge—and it does tend to wreak havoc on old plumbing. In all cases, however, you just have to know  _how_  to look." Sherlock arranged several photos of the allegedly "missing person" on his information wall whilst he spoke over his shoulder. "In our case,  _this_  man is definitely traceable, and though  _presumed_ to be _,_  he is definitely  _not_  dead."

 

Knowing his voice would be unsteady, John offered no comment and the completely-absorbed Sherlock didn't expect one. Rather, allowing the details of the case to distract him from his explosive memories, John reflected on how quickly it had all come together.

 

It had been ridiculously easy for Sherlock at first. Within hours of taking the case, the detective had successfully displayed on his wall the life-journey of the man known as Dr. Francis Prius Willard, originally from the UK, and his reinvented identity of Dr. Willard F. Prius in the States. It seemed neither "Willard," nor later "Prius," had taken precautions to hide or obscure his whereabouts. Under both names, he had cut a wide swath with travel manifests, credit card use, phone records, living accommodations, car rentals-leases, and bank transactions. It was a paper trail which the detective had obtained through official channels, but much more quickly, John suspected, with a little help from his team of hackers. No matter how they acquired it, the information about their suspect helped them discern a personality profile indicating habitual patterns of activity. Willard/Prius repeatedly displayed definite preferences for types of cars, restaurants, airlines, and all this had proven helpful in following the trail. However, once their person-of-interest had gone off the grid before attending the medical conference in Guyana, the progress of their investigation immediately slowed.

 

From that point forward, the investigation had required, as Sherlock would say, an "infinite capacity for taking pains" to pick up the disconnected strands of the incognito doctor who often changed his identity and occupations during his subsequent travels.

 

Early in their investigation, to John's great relief, it had been determined that flying to Guyana to obtain first-hand evidence was not necessary. Sherlock had concluded that the massive renovations at the Marriott had more than likely obliterated whatever traces might have remained even after two years. Instead, using the proper channels, along with Mycroft's political connections, Sherlock had requisitioned the unclaimed items and suitcases of the officially "presumed dead" man who had abandoned his belongings in the hotel room, and which had been held in police storage. They were promptly shipped to Baker Street. He also requested copies of the official police photos taken within the room where the doctor had last appeared alive. When the boxes and photos had arrived by special delivery a day ago, Sherlock had been pleased that Prius' passport and official traveling papers were among them—it was a special prize the detective immediately pinned to the wall. That their suspect was not carrying his passport when he disappeared suggested that Willard/Prius had acquired another passport for his new identity. It also strongly suggested that the man himself had planned ahead for the events in Guyana and his escape.

 

After agreeing to assist in the investigation that afternoon in Russell Square Gardens, John had regularly joined Sherlock, both on his days off and most nights after work. John was certain that Sherlock had eaten little if at all during the past six days and had barely got enough sleep required by a normal human being. Whilst John did his best to nourish the "transport" by bringing takeaway of the detective's favorite meals, he had never been able to impose a better sleeping routine even when they had lived together. However, for Sherlock, this asceticism sharpened his mind, and as John could plainly see by the progress on their information wall, it had yielded the desired results; they were decidedly further along in connecting all the dots.

 

"As André Malraux once observed, 'Man is not what he thinks he is, he is what he hides.'" Sherlock muttered distantly as he took a backward step off the sofa to the coffee table and then gracefully twirled like a dancer, alighting on the floor next to John to survey their handiwork. He mimicked John's natural parade-rest stance, adopting the same "slope arms" position, as they stood side-by side to gaze quietly at the information wall.

 

With his previous emotional upheaval subdued for the moment, John gave his partner the briefest side-long glance. He had first noticed the regularity of this Stand-at-Ease routine days ago. Whilst John initially had wondered about it, now on the sixth day of their investigation, John was sure that Sherlock found the moment to be more than just a review of their case; there was something in the set of his mouth that gave it away. Sherlock seemed to find it  _pleasing_ to have John join him on this battlefield.

 

John felt his own lips curling in a soft smile. It pleased  _him_  too.

 

Moments like these reminded John of the camaraderie and sense of purpose he had enjoyed during his military service—a fierce belonging with a special brotherhood. Losing that had made his adjustment to civilian life difficult—until Sherlock had come along. Mycroft had been wrong. John didn't miss the  _war_ ; he had missed this experience of an intense connection that working alongside Sherlock had given back to him from the very first. And although his army bonds were strong, they had not prepared John for the intensity of his loyalty and commitment to his singular friend. Even now, despite his emotional volatility over his personal loss, working with Sherlock _was_ the best therapy to help him through his grief and bereavement. Too bad their current case was pressing all the wrong buttons.

 

Re-focusing on the wall, John examined the progress of their missing person. Although he needed the visual to give him perspective on the case, he was fully aware that Sherlock's keen memory did not require it. Rather, Sherlock created the information wall for others, but particularly for John's benefit, to accommodate the more ordinary brains plagued by comparatively sluggish thought processes. John also knew that if he waited in silence long enough, Sherlock could not resist drawing his attention to the new angles or elements of the case which he had missed whilst at the surgery.

 

"Well?" Sherlock huffed with impatience. "Tell me you're not blind, John. I've yet to hear you note the changes."

 

"You mean about the pushpins?" John cocked a brow. "Nice color. New aren't they? And they're all yellow. Yup, every single one of them. Good choice."

 

"No, no! Do you  _know_  what they represent?" Snared by John's facetiousness, Sherlock pulled back to give his friend a bewildered glare, frustrated that John could sink to the lowest level of idiot, until he realized John was grinning at him.

 

John snorted a chuckle and answered "yes," before he had actually studied the arrangement, and quickly he shifted his eyes toward the wall. Scattered about the maps and timeline, the yellow pushpins dotted strategic spots along the colored yarn. "Of  _course_  I do." Speaking the truth now, John did understand the pattern that represented his contributions to the investigation, but he also noted that Sherlock had taken great pains to showcase them, as if to prove a point. Had Sherlock done this to demonstrate that John's participation was not superfluous? At one time John would not have attributed thoughtfulness to any of Sherlock's motives, but lately subtle things had been making John wonder. Fumbling for the right response to the colorful emphasis of the pushpins, John considered saying  _thank you,_ but felt that would be too awkward. Instead, he said. "You know what Mrs. Hudson's going to say about  _her_  wall, Sherlock?"

 

At John's criticism, Sherlock's enigmatic face hardened with indifference. "The same empty threat she always makes." He waved his hand as if to brush away an irritating insect. "Buzzing about  _something_  coming out of the rent," Sherlock remarked dryly. "It  _never_  does."

 

"How would  _you_  know?" John teased. Since their flat sharing ended years ago, John had occasionally wondered who might be writing out the cheques to pay the bills at 221B. It was unimaginable that such a  _boring_  necessity would actually have been done by Sherlock. More likely he hired a management service so he might remain detached from the mundane.

 

"I have my methods," but Sherlock's voice thinned with uncertainty.

 

John shrugged, cut his glance away from the frowning detective, and studied how his tedious hours of research—highlighted brightly in yellow pushpins—interconnected.

 

With special clearance obtained from MI5, the FBI, and the RCMP, John had begun his first day on the investigation researching British, American, and Canadian police reports, going back twenty years, as well as searching the Internet for news releases regarding under-aged sexual assaults. By necessity, he had to filter his search to incidents that occurred within medical facilities, or else the sheer numbers of these abuse cases would have been staggering and taken years to sort.

 

By the second day, to John's dismay, he had discovered that there had been far more cases of doctors, nurses, and health aides being sanctioned for sexual-misconduct violations than he had ever expected to find. It had made him feel suddenly naïve and brought back memories of his earliest days in medicine.

 

Whilst completing his Bachelor of Medicine and Surgery at King's College, John had heard rumors about an endocrinologist at a nearby clinic who had been accused of repeated sexual violations. Again, when he had worked at the Broomfield Hospital Chelmsford, there had been another report about a doctor in Cambridge, accused by colleagues of lewd activity. As nothing further came to light, John had thought these accusations had been resolved because the accused had been innocent. Only years later, whilst he trained as a British Army doctor at Barts, had he learned the outcome of those cases through informed colleagues: the health board and medical oversight agencies had handled the endocrinologist's misconduct case in the strictest secrecy, whilst the review board for the doctor in Cambridge had issued documents, cloaking the sexual misconduct in vague language. Both doctors had been allowed to continue practicing so as not to end their careers in scandal.

 

By his third day of research on Willard/Prius case, John had begun to see things from a different perspective. As he had scrolled through case after case of unresolved sexual offenses allegedly performed by medical professionals, he suspected that far more cases of sexual misconduct by doctors had entirely escaped public notice, similar to the doctors he had recalled from his past. Even more shocking, John realized that those doctors who had  _actually_  been cited publicly, who had been brought to justice, were merely the tip of a deep and hidden iceberg.

 

In light of this research, John had become afraid that Willard/Prius' history of misconduct might also have been among those protected by this fear of scandal and expensive law suits.

 

Still, for the sake of expediency in the final days of his Internet investigation, John had been forced to narrow his search once more, tightening his focused only to reports linked to child pornography. The only way John could distinguish the trail of their suspect from the crimes of other sexual predators—both solved and unsolved—had been by including in his search the words "spy pen" or "camera pen." Immediately, the numbers dropped to forty-three. Sherlock had been delighted.

 

That fifth night, as he had done every night before, John left Baker Street for his home in the suburbs, the one he had shared with his family. He had intended as usual to continue his research on his laptop. It kept the ghosts away. Since beginning this case, John worked on Sherlock's deadline-driven investigation rather than work off his frustrations on the punchbag; but that night he realized he had exhausted his search and it had exhausted him. He sat back with his hands in his lap and dropped his head with a sigh.

 

Perhaps it was that he was still grieving or that he was appalled by the vile abuses of these pedophile doctors, but John had not been able to share in Sherlock's enthusiasm for the case. At best, it was a pyrrhic victory. His research had yielded a sketchy trail of molestation in different cities in North America that remained unsolved but fit the M.O. of this pedophile's particular fetish—prepubescent boys and the use of a spy or camera pen. Yet he had become more defeated by the disturbing scope of rampant sexual misconduct in the medical profession, realizing that stopping one such predator would  _never, ever_ be enough.

 

Alone in his empty home, John's grief and anger over losing his family converged in a moment of unadulterated hate for the man who preyed on children, the man they had identified as Willard/Prius. Despite his mental and physical fatigue, John picked up his training gloves, fitted them on his trembling hands, and attacked the punchbag with a building rage until he was numb.

 

ooOOOoo


	10. STILL One Day Before the Car Explosion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Still the Sixth Day of the investigation, Sherlock and John continue reviewing the information wall in Sherlock's flat.

**_ooOOoo_ **

**_GIFT OF SILENCE_ **

**_ooOOoo_ **

 

 

**Sherlock and John continue reviewing the information wall in Sherlock's flat.**

 

**ooOOOoo**

 

All forty-three incidents of pedophilia with spy pen or camera pen that John had identified as unsolved, represented by yellow pushpins, had been pinned along the strings of colorful yarn.

 

"So, if  _Prius_  is represented by the blue yarn and  _Willard_  is represented by the red yarn," John pointed to each color, "and his other identities that we know of are represented by the other colors," John scratched his chin thoughtfully, "then these yellow pushpins depict his sporadic sexual assaults."

 

"And they coordinate with our suspect's locations under whatever name he was using." Sherlock showed his pleasure by stepping up onto the coffee table for another inspection of the wall.

 

"Nurse Hardings was wrong again. He didn't fall off a yacht and get ripped to bits in a feeding frenzy of sharks," John deadpanned. "Too bad."

 

"She said they were rumors, but these rumors may have contained a _partial_  truth. We suspect he had left by boat. We know  _whom_ he had presumably hired because the yacht was eventually found, drifting and abandoned." Sherlock spoke over his shoulder as he leaned closer to the wall. In a sudden quick motion, he flung himself off the table, twisting in midair like a cat, and landed on the sofa face up as if he intended all along to stare at the ceiling.

 

"Even though he didn't have a license, could he have piloted that yacht himself?" One day the sofa's legs will give way, John imagined, under one of Sherlock's acrobatic landings. He suppressed the mischievous smile raised by the mental image before Sherlock noticed and either asked or deduced it.

 

Not swift enough.

 

Sherlock had turned his head toward John in time to catch the tail-end of that smile, raised a perplexed brow of _what's-so-amusing-John?_ but did not address it as he continued discussing more important matters. "License or not, piloting it himself was out of the question. It would have been too treacherous to navigate unknown waters, as well as  _inconvenien_ t in his plans for an 'accidental death' were he to  _actually_  die." Sherlock returned his gaze to the ceiling, narrowed his eyes to slits, and tucked his tented fingers under his chin to contemplate. "Travel in Guyana can be very undependable," Sherlock reasoned aloud. "Flights get canceled, planes never show up, roads are bad and driving in a car in Guyana, Suriname, or Colombia after dark is probably the most dangerous thing you could do in those countries…"

 

"Are you talking to  _me_ or the  _skull_?" John thought it was a legitimate question as he could not tell.

 

"It  _had_  to be a private yacht, John! No other method of travel would have worked." Sherlock's eyes widened as he worked out the problem to his satisfaction. "Pre-hurricane season was the perfect time, and a yacht would have been the most effective way to get him to his destination 328 miles to Trinidad. And in Trinidad he could have found a direct flight to Toronto, Canada—paying all cash and under an assumed name—" Sherlock gestured toward the wall. "...where someone with his M.O. spent the last two years, and who approximately nine days ago was at it again at the Royal Marsden—our first indication of a similar M.O. in the UK."

 

"Although all this  _does_ demonstrate the trail of a sex offender with similar tendencies, it doesn't prove this man is actually Prius." Playing devil's advocate, John shook his head. "If the Georgetown police had no hard evidence to establish he hired a yacht, how are we to prove it two years later?"

 

"Curiously enough, the Georgetown police had no trouble assuming it  _was_ Prius who perished off the yacht they cannot prove he hired." Sherlock snorted derisively. "It's all very muddled by contradictions —No mystery here, John," Sherlock exhaled a laugh. "They had no incentives to spend department time and resources on a 'missing person' that no one exactly  _missed_ all that much. They were just as happy to presume—on hearsay evidence, I might add—that he went overboard along with a pilot notoriously lacking both seamanship and a good reputation."

 

"So, we need to prove he made this critical connection and that he did not drown or else all this," John gestured toward the wall, "is meaningless conjecture—" John bit his lip. Although it was unintended, his referring to Sherlock's research as "meaningless conjecture" was an insult of the highest caliber, especially as they both knew the truth was always Sherlock's primary goal. If what John had just said did not provoke the detective outright, then as often occurred, his comments would spur Sherlock to rethink his own assumptions to find the fallacies that might prevent him from seeing the truth. The outcome was usually productive, but just the same, John braced himself for Sherlock's irritated retort. He was not sporting for a fight; he did not have the energy. Not tonight. Strangely, Sherlock did not react at all. Relieved, John figured Sherlock had tuned him out altogether.

 

"Look, Sherlock, I believe this map  _is_  tracing the man we've identified as Prius in his post-Guyana phase, but there seems to be no way to prove that he was on the yacht," John paused, wondering whether his partner was listening, "except now, at least we have his suitcase filled with his possessions. Surely it contains samples of his DNA. Once we start collecting new samples to make comparisons, we can prove he did not drown."

 

His eyes snapping open, Sherlock nodded slowly and added softly, "….yes, but first we have to _catch_  him to get fresh DNA for that proof. We can only do that if we can locate him and get close enough to obtain samples."

 

The silence that followed between them made John feel oddly skeptical again. "Okay! So what are you  _not_  telling me?" John studied his reclining friend's profile and noticed his question raised a tell-tale dimple in the visible cheek. "You're smiling! I see it, Sherlock. You've got something. You found proof?"

 

"Surprisingly, John, I did discover today that on the oceans and in most other navigable waters, there is  _no_ license requirement to operate your own boat, rented or otherwise, as long as you are not offering a tour for hire—"

 

"—Stop it now! Don't drag this out! What did you find?"

 

Sherlock grinned broadly hearing John's renewed enthusiasm and sat upright on the sofa to face him. "Our  _real_  success today is the result of authorities finally making themselves useful. They gave us the name of a contact they had originally dismissed as irrelevant, but after I pursued this matter more thoroughly, her relevance had become more than obvious as she has provided the crucial link we've needed all along. Her name is Lila deFaberes, the former, well-kept girlfriend of one Andrew Wilkinson, the experienced if disreputable captain of  _The Wink._ He had known ties to the criminal element and enjoyed the benefits of trafficking 'merchandise' of all kinds. Yes. She has moved on to other interests since then, but she recalled Wilkinson's last 'for hire' was a man he called Doc. About thirty-six hours later,  _The Wink_  was found abandoned several miles off the coast of Port of Spain. As a boat for hire under such circumstances, record-keeping would necessarily be 'sloppy,' but thanks to the ubiquitous nature of human narcissism, Lila created evidence unknown to the local police."

 

"Let me guess. She took selfies!"

 

"Precisely, John!" Sherlock jumped up with delight and turned toward the wall. "I got her to email them to me this morning. Although she sent me a few, this one is the best." He tapped the photo which he had printed on a 210 x 297mm sheet. "If you can't have CCTV, a phone camera is the next best thing. She admitted she was compelled by superstition. Whenever he might be off for several days, Lila would take a dockside, 'good luck-good-bye' photo in which she and 'Wilkie' were kissing."

 

Sherlock removed said photo from the wall and handed it over. "Look at it, John! Caught unawares in this shot on this particular occasion is our man, Willard/Prius, is standing within the prow and the name  _The Wink_  is clearly visible. He seems distracted and is looking directly toward the camera but upwards, as if viewing something overhead. It is an unmistakable match to his professional photo ID that he carried up until that time. When  _The Wink_  and dear 'Wilkie" failed to return, Lila had posted her last photo, time stamp and all, on social media, asking if anyone had seen her captain."

 

"….and this photo has been authenticated?"

 

"Verified as untampered."

 

"Have you got a lens handy?"

 

Although he was caught completely off guard by John's request, Sherlock swiftly whipped out his pocket glass and handed it over, doing his best to mask his curiosity.

 

John examined the photo closely, holding the image at different angles under the light before handing it and the lens back to Sherlock. "Guess it was a good-bye  _without_  the good luck this time for Wilkie, but it proved lucky for us."

 

Scrutinizing the photo again with his own glass, Sherlock saw nothing new to explain John's interest and turned back to the wall. "Agreed. We know that  _both_ men went missing, and we know for sure that one survived, although it does not bode so well for dear old Wilkie. _"_ Sherlock paused. "I expect Wilkinson's bones will most surely be found on the ocean floor should anyone care to look for them."

 

"Maybe the pilot was simply paid well enough to go into permanent hiding," John suggested as Sherlock pinned the photo back on the timeline.

 

Sherlock shook his head. "Our man had accumulated his enormous wealth—which he likely hid in off-shore accounts—thanks to a string of successful clinics and labs which he owned and from which, through fraudulent overbilling, he had siphoned a significant amount of 'rainy day' savings. I'd say, maybe he wasn't so willing to share any of his now-limited reserve with some riffraff captain. No, I suspect, John, he did not have full confidence in his pilot's silence. A quick-acting sedative such as  _flunitrazepam_ in the man's beverage or food would have incapacitated the captain. Then a toss overboard—adding willful murder to Prius' list of crimes—would have finished the job. It would supply enough truth for the rumor that grew later when authorities found the yacht drifting two miles from the coast: that a passenger and the pilot had both fallen overboard."

 

"But how would he have got to Trinidad?"

 

"Most likely he used an inflatable, unmarked dinghy taken from  _The Wink_ — such vessels have often been used in mid-ocean transfers associated with insurance fraud and smuggling. Our suspect deflated it when he arrived on shore and hid it. The coast guard found one such deflated boat months later—devoid of human evidence—after a particularly violent hurricane season dislodged it from its hiding place."

 

Excitement glistened in Sherlock's eyes. "Look at the different identities we have seen him take within the past two years, John: a financial adviser for a chain of medical clinics, a pharmaceutical sales rep, a legal advocate for the underprivileged, a lab technician… but what we really have is a thrill seeker—"

 

"—A  _fucking_  bastard—" John interjected between clenched teeth.

 

"—A highly adaptable serial sex offender who's clearly skilled in the art of deception. Fortunately for us, he has been leaving his psychological calling cards scattered all around, creating a roadmap that has allowed us to follow him thus far. Meantime, he's been content in his usual pool of living victims who have mostly limited communication skills, but I fear he might resort to violence—in acting on his tendencies or in evading capture—now that he has already killed once. Unfortunately we haven't yet checked his journey against unsolved murders—might have to add that to our map. But most importantly, John, we must not make him aware that we are on to him, that we know he is in London, or we may push him into escalating his crimes to rape and even  _murder_ , if covering his tracks seems to require it… or to disappearing again altogether."

 

John had stopped listening to Sherlock. The room seemed suddenly airless, making it difficult to breathe and an unexpected anxiety overwhelmed him. His heart palpitations thudded loudly in his ears, and random thoughts exploded in his mind like hand grenades, fragmented ideas bursting upon him, making concentration impossible.

 

Drawing in a deep breath, John shook his head and swallowed hard to clear his thoughts. As he returned to the present, he noticed the heavy silence that filled the room and felt fully exposed to Sherlock's piercing stare. Dreading that his anxiety had betrayed him, John raised his eyes toward Sherlock to see that concern had darkened the detective's luminous irises. But Sherlock made no comment; he merely waited until John composed himself.

 

"Sorry…got distracted." A sheepish apology, accompanied by a half wave, was all John could manage.

 

"Apology unnecessary." The baritone voice sounded neutral and detached, but not cold.

 

When John nodded he was ready, Sherlock resumed his analysis of their suspect's criminal personality, ignoring the signs of trauma lingering in John's face. Sherlock's voice had lost its excited edge, however, and had become gentler, if John could call it that. "Listen, John, Willard/Prius may have started his professional life as a doctor, but this criminal activity, his diverse occupations over the last two years, reveal that altruism was never his impetus in his choice of career. He had sought power for the worst of reasons and ends, and knew how to manipulate the system to satisfy his greed and his tendencies. He had the required intellect—"

 

"—and working in the medical field opens opportunities that most other professions do not," John croaked, his gaze dropping to his feet, his nerves tingling and on edge. "He can satisfy his obsession, the compulsion driving him to continue doing it even if the risk of exposure is high." John barely contained the anger that strained his voice, aware Sherlock was noticing everything.

 

"Is that chow mein I smell?" Sherlock's non-sequitur question diverted John from descending deeper into dark thoughts.

 

"Huh? Yeah. Thought we should have a bite. It's probably cold by now." Surprised at first, John quickly recognized Sherlock's "food-talk" for what it was: a deliberate attempt to raise John from the doldrums. It worked.

 

"Are you hungry?"

 

"Famished, actually."

 

"Good.  _You_  should eat."

 

"It's takeaway for  _two_."

 

"Then you can eat twice as much, as I can see you've dropped nearly 7.2 pounds, not explained by the increased muscle mass in your upper arms—" He cut himself off, cued instantly by John's reactionary grimace. Sherlock briefly closed his eyes and took a deep breath before returning to the safe topic of the case. "I've scanned and printed the new photos, and now I must add them to the wall. But with these last photos, John," he waved the stack he retrieved from the printer, "we've accrued an extensive collection of official photos, driving licenses, passport ID, and hospital staff photos from legitimate sources. I have been able to upload them all into the facial recognition program. For every tag made of Willard/Prius in these photos, the algorithm has been trained to identify him from different angles, in different lightings, and in different disguises."

 

Sherlock flipped through the pages and arranged them in a particular order. "I must say he has become quite adept at being evasive. Even so, he can make all the dramatic changes in hair color and wigs, facial hair, tooth discoloration, glasses, and including skin tones, but we  _will_  find him." Sherlock stepped onto the sofa again to pin the print-outs to the wall. "The software has identified him as a fair-haired, balding man who was caught on CCTV several weeks ago in Fulham Road outside the Royal Marsden on the day Jeremy was nearly assaulted. Although there was no CCTV in the children's ward, this same man was captured on CCTV in the hospital lobby at 2.40 p.m."

 

John pressed his lips together in recollection. "Hmmm. A week ago, you mentioned that on a typical day the average person would have been seen by seventy CCTV cameras. Is this bloke an average person?"

 

"From what I've observed so far," Sherlock's voice had taken on that distracted quality like he was speaking from his Mind Palace to answer John. "Yes, and the facial recognition algorithm agrees. By morning, if my calculations are correct, we should have enough information to track  _this_  average man's location on an ordinary day in London—if he's in London."

 

"—Huh! So this is the guy?" This time, John followed Sherlock up onto the sofa to study the photos more closely. The two of them stood side-by-side balancing on the cushions. "Quite a rogues gallery you have here. But did you notice this, Sherlock?" John tapped the passport photo of W.F. Prius and several of the recent photos Sherlock had printed. "He's definitely got  _aponeurotic ptosis_  from wearing rigid lenses…"

 

Sherlock stared at John in silence, looking dismayed at the idea that John may have noticed something he hadn't.

 

"Isn't it obvious?" John grinned broadly back at his partner, relishing such a rare moment. "Rigid lens wearers often experience  _aponeurotic ptosis_ , not an uncommon condition in this patient population. It is thought to be caused by years of mechanical traction from pulling the lids whilst removing the lens."

 

"You mean his droopy eyelid? So that's why you needed the magnifying glass to look at the selfie print-out."

 

"Exactly, and you  _did_  notice  _only_  one lid is droopy?"

 

"Yes. I  _did_  notice that."

 

"Do you want to know why?"

 

"Yes, John." Sherlock exhaled his impatience through tight lips. " _Obviously!_ "

 

"Well, it's likely he's had cataract lens replacement with an intraocular lens, or IOL, implant used to treat cataracts or myopia, but he's only had the procedure done in his right eye. It has improved his vision and now he no longer needs a rigid lens in that eye. Over time the eyelid has recovered and returned to a more normal appearance."

 

With this new information, Sherlock scrutinized the other photos.

 

"And under certain light conditions," John pointed to another photo, "one can observe a light reflection—a strange-looking glint or refraction—from the implant. See here, in this photo, when the light caught it just right?"

 

Sherlock leant in closer.

 

"I don't know why he's only had the procedure done in one eye, but it's not uncommon. Many patients have a certain comfort zone when it comes to their vision. So far, the IOL implants only correct for either  _myopia_ —nearsightedness, or  _hyperopia_ —farsightedness, but not both. Maybe he's got the problem only in one eye." John scratched his head thoughtfully, "So the way I see it, unless he has had the procedure done in his left eye which will make the 'droopy eyelid' appearance disappear over time, we can be just as effective as facial recognition software in identifying him, especially if we were to walk by him on the street."

 

Clapping his hands, Sherlock threw John one of his skewed smiles with a glint in his own eyes. "Suddenly, I'm hungry. Shall we have the chow mein?"

 

"Huh? _Now_ you want to eat? Is this case solved?"

 

 

"We're so very close, John. I think with everything we've gathered here, we can take the next step toward locating our 'missing person.' Tomorrow will be pivotal…."

 

ooOOOooo


	11. Moments Before the Explosion...

**_ooOOoo_ **

**_GIFT OF SILENCE_ **

**_ooOOoo_ **

 

**ooOOoo**

**_"…first we have to catch him to get fresh DNA for that proof. We can only do that if we can locate him and get close enough to obtain samples," Sherlock had said the previous night._ **

 

**Tuesday, 9 May, 2017**

ooOOoo

 

John was in a hurry. It was all coming together. Their investigation had led them to this moment, and he wanted it over and out of their hands.

 

Heading south onto Old Brompton Road, not far from his pre-arranged rendezvous with Sherlock at the Royal Marsden Hospital, John was making excellent progress. He was shaving time off the six-minute walk from the South Kensington station to Fulham Road at an invigorating pace that elevated his heart rate and raised his spirits. Sherlock couldn't complain about his tardiness now. It was 09.10; they were supposed to be meeting by 09.30 to begin their surveillance.

 

Certainly theirs was not a mad scheme by comparison to some that Sherlock had undertaken. They were not foiling an Underground terrorist attack, dealing with Black Lotus assassins, or outwitting Moriarty. Sherlock had assured John that this would be a simple operation, mostly because they did not want to alert their suspect and have him disappear again. John had agreed their plan was possibly the least complicated in their history of working together—to collect some DNA from a discarded coffee cup or a tossed napkin in a local eatery or the hospital canteen as they followed the man on his daily routine. They first had to confirm for themselves—with Molly conducting a Polymerase Chain Reaction test on their behalf—that he was indeed their missing-person/pedophile doctor on the run from the FBI. Convincing Lestrade that there was enough circumstantial evidence to justify obtaining a warrant would be another matter altogether. At best they would provide a tip off, but a tip from the Great Sherlock Holmes would not be ignored. Ultimately, it would be up to the Met to gather admissible evidence to satisfy the chain of custody that would hold up in court. However, putting the police on the trail would end their involvement. Then John would do his best to put some space between him and this dreadful case of the pedophile doctor—block the whole affair from his mind it if he had to—and eliminate some of his "underlying stressors" as Ella would call them.

 

Thanks to the detective's unrelenting efforts, they  _had_ located Willard/Prius. Overnight, Sherlock's algorithm had successfully triangulated the facial recognition hits of their suspect with the CCTV databases within the vicinity of the Royal Marsden Hospital and produced a predictable pattern.

 

The analysis of the data indicated that for more than two months, their man had consistently boarded the 06.51 Sevenoaks commuter train to Charing Cross, arriving at 07.23 every morning. After, he had hopped on either the District or Circle Line for another half-hour to a stop that put him within walking distance of the hospital. Once in the hospital, the lobby cameras picked up Willard/Prius greeting the guard whilst juggling coffee and showing an ID badge which granted him access to the facility. Occasionally he would leave for a mid-day break or for an early lunch where he had been observed at the local bistros or for quick lunches when he had gone out briefly and come back with takeaway. He always left on schedule every night and reversed his course going home. Even though they now knew what the man looked like and where he worked, until they made inquiries at the hospital, they did not have the name of their suspect's new identity. What business had brought him regularly to the RMH or where he actually had been living were still unknowns.

 

However, at this crucial stage of their investigation, Sherlock had become the proverbial bloodhound on the scent, driven and unstoppable.

 

John felt a nagging twinge with this thought: that 'bloodhound' had not been able to keep the scent when John had needed him the most. As John rounded toward Fulham Road, his thoughts turned sharply back to key moments before and after the devastating tragedy on that horrible night…

 

**888***888**

 

**07.45 31st December**

 

Mary and John had packed their 4-door Audi hatchback the night before their trip with all the provisions a toddler would require for a week in the country. Mary and Rosamund were to motor down and John had planned to follow them later by evening train after a day at the surgery. That New Year's Eve morning before he had left for work, he was a happy man looking forward to a well-deserved week of exclusive family time.

 

Equally ebullient and efficient during their preparations for the sojourn into the countryside, Mary had lost a little of her enthusiasm when she was seeing John off for work that morning. Her bright blue eyes suddenly grew moist, and she hid a sniffle within an exasperated chuckle.

 

"No. Not now! I  _refuse_  to get a head cold. I hope it's just from the dust we've raised pulling out the luggage." After palming her eyes, she threw her arms around John and pulled him to her in a tight embrace. Laying her cheek against his freshly-shaven one, she inhaled the scent of his aftershave and sighed.

 

Savoring her warmth, John reciprocated with a passionate hug and also exhaled a gentle sigh. He nestled his nose in Mary's still-damp, fragrant hair as images of their morning shower came into sharp focus. The memory raised more than his smile. They lingered in their embrace, absorbing each other, until John grunted quietly. "You're still in your dressing gown, Mary…I could  _easily_  catch the  _next_  train…" His whisper tickled Mary's neck, as she quivered and giggled softly in his arms.

 

Then a hitch of a child's cry expanding into an enormous wail shattered their brief fantasy.

 

"Teething woes." Listening, Mary's body tensed with the distraction. "Those second molars! Oh, Rosie's  _up_  now for sure."

 

"But I'm  _up_  too." John coaxed slyly with a half-smile.

 

"You've had your turn already, John!" Mary laughed, patted John intimately in acknowledgement making him shudder with pleasure, and pushed free. "I know you can't afford to be late this morning." Very reluctantly he let her go. "Wait!" she called over her shoulder. "We  _both_  want to say goodbye." With the speed of a woman with a purpose, Mary had entered Rosie's bedroom, chirped a sing-song greeting accompanied by soothing coos, and bewitched the sobs into happy squeals. With their wispy tow-haired toddler perched in her arms, Mary hurried back.

 

"Lookee, Lambkins! Here's Daddy. Off to work! We want to say bye-bye!" Two matching pairs of sky-blue eyes peered from faces that were strikingly similar, prompting John's beaming smile.

 

"Ah, my lovely ladies! Give me your kisses!" John planted a series of soft kisses onto his daughter's precious cheeks causing her to giggle with delight. When he had finished his little game, he turned toward Mary to give her a kiss and noticed her cheeks shimmering with real tears. This was  _no_  head cold or reaction to dust.

 

"Hey, what's this, then?" He searched her face. Her large eyes met his with a sorrowful stare.

 

"Now I'm sorry I convinced you to work this shift today." As Rosie played with her daddy's ears, Mary leant her head on his shoulder. "I know with GPS I can find the cottage fine but I don't like leaving you behind. The last time I checked your work diary, you were fully booked all morning, John, but if there are any cancellations in the afternoon and you can get away early, let me know."

 

"Of course." Touched by both her tone that conveyed how much she would miss him and her words, John closed his eyes and wrapped his arms around them both for a final encompassing hug as if he could pull them both into his heart. Releasing them at last, he kissed the towheaded toddler and the tearful wife with profound tenderness before he turned and left for the day.

 

**19.15 31st December**

 

New Year's Eve revelers who had boarded the 18.10 at London Liverpool Street for Colchester Station with John had begun their celebrations early. Their mirth and loud chatter did not allow for any repose after a long and unexpectedly busy day in the surgery, but John did his best to kip on the train so he would have sufficient energy to ring in the New Year with Mary.

 

Nearly an hour later, John hailed a taxi at the Colchester station for the 30-minute ride to their rental cottage, feeling a bit uneasy that his repeated attempts to ring Mary had failed. The connection kept ringing out. He presumed it was due to the weak mobile reception at such a remote place.

 

They passed through stretches of open farmland. Several kilometers from their destination, the cab driver pointed to an orange glow above the horizon ahead. "Must be where the Fire Brigade was headed at dinnertime. Heard tell it was a major alarm. Brigades from several vicinities called in."

 

John leant forward to look through the windscreen. Against the backdrop of an illuminating orange bloom, a column of smoke spiraled and drifted slowly south, disappearing into the moonless night sky.

 

"Looks like a big one if it's glowing like this."

 

A sinking feeling gripped John but he refused to panic. Immediately, he punched in Mary's number once more and placed the phone to his right ear, drumming the fingers of his left hand on the upholstered seat, but again, it rang without an answer. Finally, John rung off.  _Damn!_

 

"Are there many farms or houses around here?"

 

"A few. These cottage farms are a bit more remote than most. You're headed to Grove, right?"

 

John's mobile chirped startling him. The caller ID read "Mary," and immediately John felt his heart drop from his throat allowing him to answer. "Mary!  _Thank_  God!"

 

A man's voice responded. "Mr. John Watson?"

 

"Yes." Dread made John's stomach lurch. His heart hammered in his ribcage. "Who's this?"

 

"This is Inspector Toby Richards of the Essex Police. We see you've called this mobile numerous times. We found it in a parked car." The Inspector exhaled a short breath before he began the official statement with the prescribed, "I am terribly sorry to have to inform you, there has been a fire—"

 

Afterwards, John could never quite recall the actual words that delivered the painful blow, the impact was too great.

 

When his taxi had pulled up to the perimeter of the scene, John leapt out before it rolled to a full stop and he started to run. Whirling blue and red lights from official vehicles strobed rhythmically and streaked the thick plumes of heavy smoke that concealed the cottage. John dashed forward, devastated and dazed, until the centuries-old cottage came into view—what remained were blackened timbers licked by intense crimson and orange flames in consuming tongues of fire. Immediately intercepted by officials, John struggled against the blockade of powerful, restraining arms in stunned disbelief, whilst his screams for his family was swallowed in the vortex of sounds from the running engines, the working pumps and the shouted commands.

 

When the futility of fighting exhausted him and the realization of his loss drained his strength, John collapsed to the ground with his hands over his mouth trying to suppress the endless need to call out their names. At last relying on his soldier's instinct to persevere, John summoned the strength to rise to his feet and witness the flickering red, yellow, and orange light of the dying fire. Numb, he viewed the eerie scene of the calamity. Craters of water formed by runoff from the fire hoses reflected the activity that bustled around him, but all John could do was watch utterly helpless. Firefighters dressed in heavy gear wrestled coiled hoses and continued to douse the charred ruins of the timber-framed cottage. Constabulary and fire inspectors stood in clusters conferring with the firefighters securing the scene for further investigation whilst uniformed constables equipped with walkie-talkies listened and responded in bursts of communication. The paramedics on the scene waited in a parked and empty ambulance. John stubbornly dismissed their attempts to check him for shock and eventually they were permitted to pack up and drive off.

 

John understood it all. No one would be walking out of that house. There would be no rescue. There would be no recovery. His wife and daughter were reduced to bone fragments, teeth and ash.

 

How long he remained paralyzed by grief, John could not be sure. After the police had taken his statement and exchanged information among themselves, one constable took John aside. "Mr. Watson, I'm Police Constable Sanders. May we arrange a place for you to stay tonight?"

 

For a moment, John met the PC's kind eyes and quickly averted his gaze toward a distant spot beyond. Everywhere he looked there was destruction and ruin, but it was better for him to stare at the devastation than see in the eyes of a stranger the sympathy that would crumble his resolve.

 

"Is there someone you'd like us to call? To be with you…?" Sanders persisted.

 

Controlling the quiver of his lower lip, John shook his head.

 

The PC nodded to the Audi parked near the end of the drive. "We realize that's your family car. It's undamaged, but it will have to be impounded as part of the ongoing investigation," the constable explained. "Have you a way to get home?"

 

John hesitated, dazed that the constable was bringing this up. "I came by taxi and train." He pointed to the taxi driver who, absorbed by the tragedy, had not left. As both John and Sanders glanced in his direction, the somber-faced cabbie acknowledged their glances with a nod.

 

"Tom's a good man. I'll talk to him about the fare and send him off. We may have a few more questions. It's better if you stay with us. We'll take care to get you home," the constable assured him and went off to speak to the cab driver.

 

Now shivering as the adrenaline that had sustained him bled off, John bowed his head. His shoes were soaked through to his skin, his trousers were muddy, his hair was sprinkled with bits of soot, and his nose stung with the foul, pungent stench of smoke. Whilst there was nothing more for him to see, he could not find it in himself to leave just yet.

 

His heart ached and his brain hurt, but John tried to collect his thoughts by concentrating on the freezing puddles. As emergency personnel splashed through them in haste, the thin skins of ice that coated their surfaces fractured. John, too, felt thin-skinned and unable to withstand the heavy foot that had stomped out his dreams. Yet, somehow in the past, he had managed. He had been able to recover from two life-changing shocks—as a casualty of war that crippled him and his surgical career and as the horrified witness grief-stricken by his best friend's inexplicable suicide. But this time, _this_  time, it was too much to bear. Living was a burden he did not want; surviving the loss of Mary and Rosie would be impossible…

 

 _This was impossible…._   _what he was witnessing could not have happened._ A sudden nagging idea sparked a conflagration of thoughts that illuminated the unasked question: Was this an accident or something else? He had been so caught up reacting to  _what_  had happened that he had not considered  _how_  it had happened. The fire inspectors would not share their suspicions until they had thoroughly investigated the scene, leaving John in the worst kind of limbo. A chilling recollection about the dangers of Mary's past and the protection that she had been promised—Sherlock's vow _: "I will always be there, always, for all three of you,"_ followed later by Mycroft's aid—furiously fanned the flames of John's stark fear that this fire may not have been an accident but an act of wilful murder.

 

 _No! If only I had been here!_ Fighting through his rage and grief, John sifted through assorted excuses and explanations but came up empty; raw emotions made it impossible to think. Guilt, far thicker than smoke, choked him, enormous guilt about remaining in London to finish up at the surgery, as Mary had suggested, before joining his girls to spend the first seven days in the New Year on holiday. If only he had been here, he would have defended them. He would have rescued his wife and daughter from the fire or died with them.

 

Another wave of regrets assailed him. Neither Sherlock's vow nor Mycroft's support were of any use.  _Empty_ fucking _promises_ ,  _they were!_  Bitterness rose in his throat along with fury. Yet as much as he wanted to cast blame elsewhere—anywhere else—he realized neither Sherlock nor Mycroft were as much to blame as he. It was ultimately his responsibility to protect his wife and child, and having utterly failed his family, he was to blame for what traces remained of them in mere bone fragments, teeth and ash.

 

The fire was now almost completely out with only smoke and a few red-glowing wall studs—the structure's exposed skeleton remained. John turned to survey the burned-out cottage and surroundings one last time. Who would listen to his suspicions and not think he was paranoid or maddened by grief? John squared his shoulders, stared at the charred ruins of his life, and pulled out his mobile. There was only one person who would listen, only one person who mattered to him now—his best friend—the genius who knew ash.

 

"Sherlock," he swallowed the sob that nearly choked his voice. "I need your help—"

 

**JANUARY - APRIL**

 

Initially, the "bloodhound" had strained at the lead, eager to be on the scent. In pursuing the investigation to establish the cause of the fire, Sherlock seemed unstoppable, entirely focused on the reasons  _how_  and _why_ it happened, as if to spare himself the loss and the pain of  _what_  had happened to John Watson's family. So, it was decidedly unexpected that barely a week after the New Year's Eve fire, it seemed that Sherlock had lost the scent. The detective's frustration and anger were palpable, and he seemed greatly pained by his inability to prove what John suspected.

 

Nor were John's suspicions resolved by the notice he received about an official inquest that had been opened within 48-hours of the fire. He had been informed that as the victims died in a commercial property, standard police and fire protocols were being followed to determine the  _cause of death_. After, he would be invited to the hearing that the Court of Inquest would convene to review the results of these investigations. On the appointed day of the public hearing in late March, John had not come alone to listen to the findings of—in his opinion—the suspect investigations. Although unable to provide supporting evidence to the contrary, Sherlock had been at his side. They listened quietly as first the police and then the fire inspectors presented their reports.

 

What the police had found was hardly earthshaking. Exploring motives for the fire, the police had made thorough background checks establishing that no complaints had been filed or threats made against the proprietors of the holiday home, no history of vandalism had been reported in the area, and no unusual insurance claims and title problems were attached to the destroyed property. Neither had the neighbors seen anything to arouse suspicion, despite the timing of it being New Year's Eve, leaving the police nothing further to go on.

 

In their report the fire inspectors explained that they had sent in their most qualified cause-and-origin experts to examine the fire scene and collect evidence. After combing through the ruins, the investigators had decidedly ruled out arson caused by accelerants on the premises, although a deliberate cigarette could erupt into flames. As the victims were not smokers, this possibility was ruled out. Smoke detectors taken into evidence were melted lumps of battery and plastic as was the artificial Christmas tree adorned by fairy lights. In addition, the fire investigators had reviewed the fire-inspection records on the cottage and found no overt violations or electrical hazards that compromised the safety of the structure. Some evidence of damage to a gas value had been noted, but the inspectors could not determine if it had happened before or after the explosion that caused the fire. They concluded that the gas explosion was triggered by an electrical spark possibly from defective fairy lights.

 

The last report was delivered by Dr. Stanley Tucker, the Colchester coroner. Unable to perform autopsies on the remains recovered in the high-heat fire, Dr. Tucker determined that the trace remains sifted from the ashes were indeed human. Unfortunately, the morphological indicators had been altered. The DNA of the bone fragments and teeth of the victims had been chemically and physically degraded, making positive proof of their identities impossible.

 

Throughout the proceedings John sat tense and silent, his lips drawn into a thin, grim line. As family of the deceased he had a "proper interest" to question a witness, but there were no witnesses, no one to interrogate. Although John had not been present at the time of the fire and therefore not a witness, he was called to give his account at the inquest regarding Mary's state of mind, but his statements were relegated to answering yes or no to the questions: Was Mary Watson suicidal?  _No_! Was she harboring thoughts of infanticide?  _No!_  It was just as well he was not given opportunity to elaborate; he did not believe his opinions would have convinced the authorities to reconsider their findings. Nor could he disclose the truth about Mary's past, a truth he did not fully know himself.

 

Upon determining all the facts surrounding the deaths, Dr. Stanley Tucker rendered the decision that the deaths were accidental. Once the verdict was returned, the Court of Inquest concluded and everyone cleared the room—except John and Sherlock.

 

Sherlock stood wearily; John was unable even to move from his seat. He was not satisfied with the official conclusions. Every bit of it felt wrong: the fire, the investigation, the Coroner's conclusions, the inquest but most of all, the verdict. Fists clenched, his mind raced with arguments he could not speak aloud.  _No, no, no. My Mary was resourcefully cunning, a tactical agent—she had been a fucking trained assassin, for God's sakes—with her bloody amazing reflexes and retentive memory. How could this skilled agent not have maneuvered her way out of a simple country cottage to save herself and our daughter? This was no accident…_

 

Feeling stymied, John realized there was no point in requesting an appeal. He had no unconsidered evidence and therefore no recourse but to abide by the ruling although he would never believe the lies it contained. With that thought, John abruptly stood.

 

Sherlock, taking it as a sign that John was ready to leave, led the way and John distractedly followed, his mind still churning with questions:  _had Mary's past caught up with her? Did someone breach the protection Mycroft had promised us? She had to have been attacked, overpowered, and incapacitated! That is the only Goddamned reason she would not have fought them off._

 

"Murder!" John hissed through gritted teeth controlling his rage within a tight whisper. A few steps behind the detective, John leant closer to his friend's back and spoke into the dark weave of the great coat like it was a confessional screen. "It had to have been murder, Sherlock, not an accident! I will not accept that a gas explosion sparked by fairy lights on a Christmas tree caused the massive fire that took my Mary and Rosie from me—" John's voice broke. As he could not forgive himself for failing them, he could not expect absolution.

 

Sherlock wore an inscrutable expression as he turned to face John. Briefly he studied his friend with his mouth parted as if ready to offer some information, but immediately he clamped his lips shut. When they resumed walking, they were now side-by-side. Finally exhaling a soft sigh, Sherlock spoke at last, "I hear you, John."

 

Casting a sidelong glance at his tight-lipped friend, John wondered why during the hearing the detective had not uttered a word, had not raised his hand to speak and had not poked holes in the flimsy evidence that screamed contradictions, even to John's less discerning eye.

 

As if not to encourage John's discussion in so public a place, Sherlock did not return the glance. A great disquiet had settled over Sherlock months ago when the Watson family had died. That same mood darkened his countenance as they left the Coroner's office. Even more than John, Sherlock had grown withdrawn and brooding, and it appeared his thoughts were now heavier with the outcome having been handed down. Each man was so wrapt in his own thoughts about the absurdity as well as the finality of the inquest's verdict that neither spoke on the trip back to London.

 

As months followed weeks, John could never quite overcome the feeling of betrayal that once the trail had gone cold, so had Sherlock's interest…

 

**888***888**

**_Pre-explosion: moments before (continues)_ **

**ooOOoo ooOOoo ooOOoo**

 

Just as John arrived in Fulham, his mobile rang, startling him. John blinked himself into the present and lifted the phone to his ear. Sherlock was already talking.

 

"Our suspect is not following his predicted pattern, John!" Rarely as it was heard, the worry in Sherlock's voice was loud and clear through John's mobile. "Our facial recognition alerts did not detect our suspect boarding the commuter train this morning."

 

"What?" John halted in his tracks. "Has he been spotted  _anywhere_  today?"

 

"I'm waiting for data uplinks to refresh on my laptop."

 

"You're still at Baker Street then?" John hesitated and circled a spot on the pavement. As a lorry rumbled by, he covered his free ear to mask the traffic sounds.

 

"No, John, I'm in the hospital lobby. There's Internet here _too_."  _Don't be an idiot_  was implied in his tone, but Sherlock could not resist showcasing his manipulation of the situation. "Didn't sign on as guest, though. That would have been too heavily filtered and slow—I had to hop on the hospital server. I should need only a few minutes before their IT people notice anything. I am broadening the search for the entire radius of the hospital."

 

"It's barely nine fifteen! We're supposed to meet at half past."  _Hell! Of course Sherlock would be early._ "Hang on. I'm nearly there, Sherlock." John resumed his quick march. "I'll be there in less than two minutes."

 

"That may be too late, John. This change in pattern could mean he is planning to take off and we might lose him." The urgency in Sherlock's voice was unmistakable.

 

"I guess the lobby guard is not authorized to release information or even tell you if he checked in today?" John mused aloud.

 

"You know my methods, John. He  _did_ , but without realizing it," Sherlock replied.

 

"So much for hospital security," John mumbled.

 

"Certainly not the usual hospital protocol though, is it? That's what's curious. Why would our suspect enter through the lobby daily and not use the separate entrances and electronic keycards normally given to hospital staff?" It was a rhetorical question and Sherlock had not expected John to answer.

 

"Because he's not a staff member." John answered anyway.

 

"Right, John!" Sherlock agreed. "The lobby guard keeps entry records of nonstaff with limited access to certain floors and the labs. We are looking for Will Franks—occupation: medical lab technician  _on loan_  from the Institute of Cancer Research—a guest researcher. Unfortunately today, he checked in a full half-hour earlier—without his morning coffee. Such a small detail may matter greatly in this case."

 

John immediately intuited the reason. "If he didn't pass his normal breakfast stops, maybe he arrived by another means, like a taxi or car."

 

"Exactly, John! A break in routine has great significance. Oh, the data is loading now. I'm getting new images. It is showing me he left the hospital ten minutes ago and the CCTV cameras have picked him up at the Just Park near the Royal Marsden. I don't believe this is a live feed, maybe on a 20-second delay, but it shows him heading toward a car in a reserved parking space! And now it shows that he is actually driving off toward…looks like he's headed to Fulham. Where are you now, John?"

 

"Fulham! Near the hospital entrance."

 

"Wait there, John. I'm coming out."

 

"What kind of car? Color?" John growled impatiently. "Sherlock? Sherlock?" John kept the phone pressed to his ear, listening hard to the detective who was speaking rapidly at someone as if experiencing some resistance in leaving the hospital lobby. Had Sherlock miscalculated  _when_  the hospital IT might notice his presence? He might be detained if he couldn't talk his way out of this one.

 

"Sherlock! Tell me what the  _bloody hell_  type of car I should be looking for!"

 

At last John heard the succinct, "Volkswagen Golf! Black!" And Sherlock rang off.

 

John had hardly tucked his phone away when the sounds of screeching brakes and the sickening noise of a car smashing into a streetlight pole shook him. Bystanders had become immobilized by shock and stood rooted to the pavement in Fulham Road. When John saw a young child in a sky-blue jacket, screaming for her mother, his combat medical training, as quick as his paternal instinct, focused him. He charged toward the scene of the collision.

 

From a great distance he heard Sherlock's distinct cry, "JOHN!" followed by an enormous BOOM.

 

ooOOOoo

**oooOOOooo**

**888***888**


	12. TWO WEEKS After the Explosion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Picking up from Chapter 5 
> 
> RECAP: Two weeks after the explosion, John has recovered from his mild concussion and vertigo. His eardrums have healed and all the physiological tests indicate he should be able to hear, but he is still deaf. He has just learned he is suffering from psychosomatic deafness. "It's all in your head," is how Sherlock delicately sums it up. Communicating mostly by text messages on their phones, they have left the ENT clinic and are walking when Sherlock drops a bomb:

**_ooOOoo_ **

**_GIFT OF SILENCE_ **

**_ooOOoo_ **

ooOOoo

 **Dialog at end of Chapter 5:**  

_"That car explosion was not a result of the accident, and the child you rescued was never in the car."_

"Sorry?" John blinked in confusion as he viewed the text, unable to process what he was reading when the next text arrived.

_"You think I spent all this time getting you back on your feet for no reason? It's a clear-cut case. Could use your help now."_

**ooOOoo**

**ooOOoo**

 

**Tuesday, 23 May, 2017**

 

"Sherlock?" John's jaw dropped in surprise. He felt as though he had just woken from a trance and had been confronted with everything he had missed during a fugue state of mind. "A case?  _Ex_ plain! " John thundered in irritation. Some heads turned toward the two men standing on the corner in Transept Street, but the few passers-by who noticed kept a respectful distance.

 

 _"What do you want to know first?"_  Sherlock texted.

 

"Every- _bloody_ -thing!" Wagging his head, John growled and stomped his foot in frustration, realizing the impossibility of such a demand. For the first time since his hearing loss, he seriously regretted not having learnt any form of sign language, even the members-only hand signals at the Diogenes Club, and he hadn't yet discovered how to use the newly installed Interpreter app on his mobile. Sherlock seemed eager to oblige but John's deafness obviously prevented the detective from rattling off explanations at speeds that a hearing person would have had trouble following. Already aggravated that this impairment had been disrupting his life for the past two weeks, John felt his anger soar in a delayed reaction after learning that  _he_  was the cause of his own lingering deafness.

 

With head bowed toward the pavement, John paced in a tight circle muttering obscenities under his breath. Halting abruptly, he began counting first to ten, then to twenty. It was not until thirty, however, that he was able to focus on his breathing and dissipate his fury. Once he had regained control, John leveled an irritated look as his friend. "First, tell me about the little girl. If she was  _not_  in the car, where  _was_ she and what the  _bloody hell_  was she doing there alone?"

 

Sherlock swiftly punched a reply in the phone.  _"You_ thought _you rescued her from the car, but she and her mum were bystanders on the pavement about 8 metres from the collision site. Mum was heading to RMH to visit her son. When the noise of the collision frightened them both, the little girl ran off."_

 

Once he read the text, John cocked a brow, sensing there were more details to the story, but Sherlock was simplifying it. "A child that age—what was she? Not yet three years old?—would likely be strapped in a buggy when out walking with her mum."

 

Sherlock nodded and began texting his explanation. Too impatient to wait for it, John leant over the detective's arm and read as Sherlock input his reply into the text box. " _Mother had stopped to readjust the squirming tot. Child was still unstrapped when the car crashed. Mum fell over in fright, buggy toppled, tot ran."_

 

"That's why she was not strapped in a child  _car_  seat," John added thoughtfully his lips pursed as he followed this thread to its conclusion, "and there would have been very little time to free her before the blast—" John brought his hand to his forehead and scrubbed down his face as if to remove any trace of emotion. Heaving a soft sigh, he side-tracked the topic, "I've heard there  _are_  some clever kids who can get out of  _anything_  without adult help. You must've been such a  _horror_." The scowl that ridged his forehead softened as he raised his eyes toward Sherlock.

 

 _You have no idea._  Sherlock mouthed through his amused smirk.

 

"Believe me, I  _do_." John grunted, recalling numerous times in the flat when he had witnessed the  _escape artist_  practice Houdini-like technical know-how and brute physical strength to free himself from restraints. During some of their investigations, Sherlock's diversionary tactics of "smoke and mirrors" as well as his command of costumes, accents, and postures to hide his distinctive physique, had effectively eluded his pursuers and regularly fooled John. But his greatest escape acts so far had been averting death—from a terrible fall, an Underground bomb, and a bullet to the sternum. John cleared his mind of these ridiculously remarkable feats and returned to topic. "Okay, so what caused the car explosion?"

 

Urging John to start walking, Sherlock pointed, indicating that the answer was already in John's phone. John slowed to take a look. This time he saw the waiting email and opened it. It was particularly lengthy and hard to read in the daylight, but obviously, it was from Sherlock.

 

"Maybe we should find a place where I can read this properly, with less reflective glare and where there's not a distinct possibility of getting injured as a distracted walker."

 

As if it had been his intention all along, Sherlock swiftly directed them to the closest Tube station. Within minutes they were touching in with their Oyster Cards at Edgware Road Station. John's life-time familiarity with the London Underground had not prepared him for traveling the system in the total absence of sound. He had not entered any station since his injury and it was decidedly disorienting, but he was grateful he could rely upon the observation techniques Sherlock had taught him. The trembling platform and the rush of wind warning him of an incoming train—quite perceptible when he  _could_  hear the roar of engines—were now essential atmospheric indicators.

 

As the train pulled into the station, John's eyes darted to the lights on the doors, the neutral expressions on people's' faces, the edgy body language of the regular commuters queueing for the doors to open as they stepped in and out of the carriages. Most importantly he could perceive by the mannerisms of the people around him that there were no unexpected alerts or disruptions occurring that would warn a hearing person of trouble. John was both fascinated by the variety of subtle visual cues he had never noticed before and exhausted by the concentration it required to pay such close attention. The energy level to stay alert made him value Sherlock's prodigious talents even more.

 

Once onboard the Circle Line for Hammersmith that was amply populated by midmorning passengers, John realized how much he missed hearing the whoosh of the closing doors and the articulate, prerecorded female voice announcing the stations.

 

John glanced toward Sherlock and felt vulnerable in the detective's hawk-like gaze. Was Sherlock watching to critique his mistakes or protect him from dangerous missteps? It wasn't clear, so John decided pretending he hadn't noticed was best.

 

"Where are we going?" John took a vacant seat and Sherlock held the handrail above him in the aisle.

 

Sherlock pointed to South Kensington Station on the diagram.

 

"And  _why_  are we going there?"

 

 _We have an appointment. S_ herlock framed his words distinctly.

 

"Oh? Who with?" Hit with the uncertainty of dealing with others whilst still in his unhearing state, John grimaced.

 

Exasperated with John's questions, Sherlock pulled an annoyed face, pointed at the phone, and gestured in such an emphatic way, it was clearly understood in any language:  _READ!_

 

"During Your Recuperation" was the subject heading of the email. He began reading a diary of events—in outline format—that Sherlock had obviously kept for John's benefit, about the…

 

… _Willard/Prius case!_

 

A powerful wave of memory struck John and he closed his eyes tight.  _How could I have forgotten all this?_ In utter astonishment he recalled it all in that instant.  _Their_  case had been preoccupying them night and day. Yet, during those two weeks while he struggled to reclaim his life from the clutches of mild concussion, vertigo, deafness, and PTSD, thoughts about the doctor-pedophile had never recurred to him. Neither had Sherlock offered any reminders during his recovery, perhaps determining it would be unwise to disturb the patient during convalescence, but more likely so as not to distract John from focusing on the compensatory skills of Sherlock's intensive training program. John had arrived at Baker Street in a nearly unconscious state and remained bedridden for several days. During that time, Sherlock must have dismantled the magnificent wall, an exhibit that rivaled works in Tate Modern, stripped it bare, and unceremoniously disposed of the network of yarn, pushpins, and photos. Everything associated with their investigation had been removed from the flat. Not once had John remembered it when he spent days staring at Smiley face and the fleur-de-lys wallpaper practicing his VRT stabilizing techniques with Sherlock.

 

_Goddammit! I wiped it clean from my mind!_

 

Sheepishly John peered up at the un-Smiley face of his impatience friend. "What happened to all that information on your wall?" He fixed his stare on Sherlock's lips until the detective relented and mouthed the answer.  _I did not need it anymore._

 

"Of course," John replied dryly. "I always figured as much."

 

Sherlock tapped his wristwatch and commanded—  _Read!_

 

John obeyed. At first, it appeared to be a somewhat cryptic and succinct outline organized by dates and time to frame when the information became available, but John was quickly able to distinguish the plain facts of the case—disclosed in frequent updates from DI Greg Lestrade, presumably relayed by phone as Sherlock had hardly ever left the flat—and Sherlock's running commentaries set off by boldface italics and surrounded in brackets. More importantly, John was able to scan the timeline and bring himself up to speed with what had transpired whilst he was convalescing and oblivious to the activity of the ongoing case.

 

**8***8**

**"Notes: Willard/Prius Case"**

**DATE: 9.5.17 Tuesday:**

09.02 a.m. Our surveillance of the suspect for the purpose of DNA evidence-collection began at the RMH.

**_[09.17 a.m. Suspect fled site by car. Car explosion injured JW. Our plan to follow suspect for evidence-collection now aborted.]_ **

**_[09.41 a.m. JW transported to St. Mary's Hospital and kept for observation for 23 hours.]_ **

888

888

 **DATE: 10.5.17 Wednesday** :

**_[08.15 a.m. JW self-discharged from SMH to convalesce at 221B.]_ **

09.45 a.m. LESTRADE: The car in the explosion has been identified—a 2011 Black Volkswagen Golf—was a total loss not due to the collision but from the ensuing explosion and fire. Car and contents were burnt in a massive fireball.

LESTRADE:  **ABOUT THE DRIVER** —Will Franks—escaped unharmed.  ** _[Confirmation noted. We had already determined his identity the previous day, in fact, just moments before the collision.]_**

LESTRADE: After passing the drink-driving breath test, driver Will Franks refused medical attention, claiming no personal injury. After questioning him, the Met had no reason to hold him.

LESTRADE:  **ABOUT THE VEHICLE**  —Records showed the car was a recent purchase and changed ownership a week before the accident:  _Sold by_  Thomas Grayson #20 of Rye Lane Complex, Dunton Green, Sevenoaks,  _(occupation: optician for General Eyewear);_   _Sold to_  neighbor Will Franks,  _(occupation: medical lab technician Institute of Cancer Research)_  #17, same apartment complex. Cash deal.

 

**8***8**

 

"Hang on, Sherlock!" John looked up from reading. "You mean to tell me you knew that the car accident and the explosion were linked to our case!"

 

His brows arched, Sherlock patted the air with his hands to suggest John lower his voice.

 

They had stopped at a station and passengers were shuffling about to exit or move deeper into the carriage. John frowned, tapped his foot, and crossed his arms as he waited somewhat impatiently for Sherlock to compose a long text. Yet, with lightning speed. Sherlock input nearly all his reply before the train had started moving again. As he hit the send button, the mass of the carriage overcame the inertia causing the slightest lurch, and the train pulled slowly from the station.

 

 _"Was it coincidence?"_ The scoff was unmistakable in the detective's text despite the absence of sound.  _"The car at the accident scene in Fulham Road was a Black Volkswagen Golf. Willard/Prius' car in the carpark garage was the same model and color and he was last seen driving toward Fulham Road. No coincidence—it WAS our suspect's CAR!"_

 

"You didn't breathe a word about this for two weeks." Managing to control a flare of temper—John didn't actually know why he was annoyed—he corrected the volume of his voice to compensate for the moving train. Judging by Sherlock's body language _—_ the detective had to lean closer to listen _—_ John judged his success. "Why didn't you tell me this before?"

 

Sherlock straightened his posture and rolled his eyes as if the answer should have been obvious to an idiot. Although it was more of a challenge to text whilst standing and hanging onto a handrail of a moving train, Sherlock managed to answer in a series of short replies.

 

_"Before was not possible. You were not ready."_

 

_"You always complain that I talk to you when you're not physically present."_

 

 _"For two weeks you were_ physically _present, but unable to listen."_

 

_"Very frustrating!"_

 

_"I wrote this diary to talk to you—don't need it for the John in my Mind—but for when you would be better able to listen and concentrate, which is why I need you to read it NOW!"_

 

"Right." Registering the fullness of the Sherlock's gesture to include him, John hid a satisfied smile and resumed reading.

 

**8***8**

888

888

**DATE: 11.5.17 Thursday:**

**_[JHW Recuperation Operation begins. Charts regulating around-the-clock symptoms with progress reports are in a separate folder. See attached link "Project John."]_ **

08.58 a.m. LESTRADE: The cause of the car explosion was not the fuel leak resulting from the impact of the collision, but the result of a homemade bomb within the car. Although much of the interior of the car burned, the investigators had been able to identify some traces of the substances for the highly explosive TATP  _(triacetone triperoxide)._ The Met believed a faulty trigger on the homemade bomb failed to detonate the explosive.

**_[My research on these trace substances of the bomb yielded the following information: "TATP is easy to make with acetone and peroxide and hard to detect, but is also incredibly unstable. In fact, all it takes is a firm tap to explode TATP with a force that's about 80% as strong as TNT."]_ **

LESTRADE: The driver heard an odd sound coming from the back seat and turned to see a timer ticking down. Immediately, he exited the moving vehicle. The driverless car collided with the lamp post. "Except for our hero John, all other injuries were minor."

**_[The timer as detonator in plain sight of the driver gave him warning. Was the intent to frighten but not harm the driver? The power of the bomb indicates otherwise. Rather, was there a more sinister intention to let the victim know his time was up?]_ **

888

**_[At what speed was the car moving? If the driver had been able to leave the moving vehicle and sustained no injuries—which is what he claimed—then the car must not have been traveling at an average speed._ **

**_A person jumping from a moving car going 35 mph will travel approximately 80 meters ahead of the car within five seconds and must avoid obstructions like poles, bridges or obstacles to survive. No matter, landing will surely hurt._ **

**_The driver must have considered that the consequences of NOT jumping were far worse._ **

**_However, Fulham Road is not one of the major London routes restricted to 20 mph limit, so even if allowing for some deceleration before he exited the car, I suspect he was masking his injuries when he told the police he was uninjured._ **

**_Refusing assistance on the scene does not mean he did not require some follow-up medical attention. Although he has practiced as a doctor, he may not have had supplies to take care of himself and may have had to seek treatment for abrasions, fractures, and contusions. Must check local clinics or surgeries for a patient who booked in. If he decided to go the self-treatment route, check facilities or pharmacies in the area that may have sold larger than average bandages, splints, antiseptic supplies….]_ **

888

**_[BIG QUESTION: WHO IS THE BOMBER?]_ **

888

LESTRADE: The Met's profile of the bomber was sketchy. They believed the bomber was not a professional, more likely an explosive hobbyist or an experimenter. They concluded that the bomb explosion had not caused the collision; the collision triggered the bomb after the crash. Lestrade admitted they do not yet have a motive for the attack.

**_[But, John, we know there is motivation for the bomb: The Met had been unaware of our case and did not know the true identity of Willard/Prius-pedophile and that we have linked him with a trail of victims. I suspect we should be checking relatives or surviving victims. Two years ago in Guyana, Willard/Prius' Marriot Hotel room had been ransacked; the police were unable to determine if anything had been taken. I studied those photographs from the hotel room and believe the disarray was not the result of a burglary, but a break-in as a warning. Had Willard/Prius been threatened by a stalker months prior to this incident, perhaps by someone who had been aware of his past, precipitating his decision to go into hiding? Is this stalker from two years ago escalating his pursuit? Is the stalker the bomber?]_ **

7.35 p.m. LESTRADE: The Met cannot locate Will Franks and have nothing further to go on. Will continue tomorrow.

**_[Not surprised.]_ **

LESTRADE: However, in their attempts to locate him, the Met questioned the former car owner and neighbor. Grayson reported that Franks was moving out. It was the reason he needed the car. Grayson was quoted as saying. "Franks accepted another job somewhere near Cambridge."

**_[It took a bit of phishing as someone trying to submit a reference for the new hire at medical facilities and labs in the area, but the following day I verified that medical lab technician Frank P. Willis—not Will Franks— was scheduled to start Wednesday (the day after the explosion) at Cambridge Biomedical Campus, but he did not report to his new job.]_ **

LESTRADE: The former car owner Grayson said that Tuesday was supposed to be Franks' last day in London. He had packed all his belongings—a few cardboard boxes—in the boot and his clothes on the back seat. "He was going in to collect his last pay for his lab work at the hospital… then he was off. It's too bad about the car exploding. He must have lost everything! Not  _my_  doing. The VW was in good shape. Gave him all the papers about maintenance; no reason for it to blow up like that."

**_[Grayson is correct: a bomb is the reason the car exploded. Bad news: Willard/Prius/Franks has gone into hiding since the explosion. However, without all his prepared documents and belongings, he may be having difficulty maneuvering through his get-away channels. This may require him to come out of hiding to obtain replacements as well as seek medical attention. When he does, the facial recognition software will locate him.]_ **

**ADDENDUM:**  Lestrade is bringing his " _best"_  aboard this case for JW. The DI expressed his concern for JW's recovery and wanted JW to know that they would get to the bottom of this explosion. He would stop by when JW was up to visitors.

**_[It was necessary at this point, John, to tip off Lestrade with facts of missing-person pedophile on run.]_ **

LESTRADE: The Met will look into it.

**_[As you know, I have no confidence in their success, even with facial recognition software. I know you would disagree, John, as you often side with Lestrade.]_ **

888

888

**DATE: 12.5.17 Friday:**

**Old Case Launches New Investigation: _[Who planted the bomb? Why was Willard/Prius/Franks/VW Golf targeted? Where is he hiding now?]_**

**_[Before this case grows too cold, John, it is imperative to accelerate your recuperation. This requires I step up the program. As my culinary contributions are not to your tastes, I will not discourage Mrs. Hudson from volunteering to manage proper nourishment to speed your recovery. I cannot live without brainwork, but food is_ ** **your _fuel. This works well. Not performing your food prep will give me more time to devise quicker ways to acclimatize you. Progress is essential for you to be ready.]_**

**8***8**

Sherlock tapped John on the shoulder, indicating they were close to their destination of South Kensington, so instead of reading through the remaining notes for the following week—John noticed all entries had begun with  ** _["Project John" ongoing]_** —he scrolled down quickly until he found the last entry: today's date.

**8***8**

888

888

**DATE: 23.5.17 Tuesday:**

**_[08.15a.m. JW's ENT Appointment and tests. Approximate end-time 10.30 a.m.]_ **

TIME: 11.15 a.m. Appointment at RMH. At the request of Jeremy Cooper, Nurse Jill Hardings arranged a meeting with his parents (Melissa and Stan Cooper), and Royal Marsden Hospital psychologist Sarah Evans. Jeremy Cooper, the nine-year-old who thwarted his attacker, wants to talk to us. Nurse Hardings says, "he is eager to meet 'Sherlock Holmes' and the family wants to meet Dr. John Watson."

 

**8***8**

 

"Why me?" John wondered aloud, but sensing the deceleration of the train, his question went unanswered. As it halted and the doors slid open, Sherlock enjoined John to follow.

 

The six-minute walk to the Royal Marsden Hospital was all too familiar. John tried not to think about what had happened to him the last time he took this route. However, this journey proved uneventful. In the hospital lobby, Sherlock and John were greeted by Nurse Hardings and guided to the private offices for patient-doctor conferences where the Cooper family and the psychologist awaited.

 

They were ushered into the cheery office tastefully designed in soothing colors. Occupying the center of the room under the brightly lit ceiling fixture was an oval wood-laminate conference table. At its center, a dainty vase of yellow and white carnations offered a pop of lively color. Six matching swivel chairs surrounded the meeting table. However, the room was also designed for more informal conversations; four gingham-upholstered armchairs were arranged in pairs with side tables against the wall. Behind each of the more casual seatings stood a floor lamp that offered softer illumination as an alternative to the overhead light.

 

Child psychologist Sarah Evans welcomed them with gracious and professional cordiality whilst a woman, presumably Jeremy's mother, stood next to her son. Immediately, John's eyes locked onto the nine-year-old leukemia patient transformed by his chemotherapy regimen. Bald, missing his eyebrows and eyelashes, the child had complete hair loss, but the vitality in his eyes indicated he had the spirit and the courage to conquer his disease. Weeks ago Nurse Hardings had said Jeremy was currently in remission, and John observed the boy's healthy complexion and energy-level as encouraging signs that this extraordinary child  _would be_  a survivor. After John swallowed the lump in his throat, he gave Jeremy Cooper an honest and appreciative smile.

 

Jeremy smiled back before turning to the celebrity he had been looking forward to meeting: Sherlock Holmes.

 

John followed the boy's gaze. Sherlock had been exchanging introductions and explanations with Sarah Evans, Jill Hardings, and Melissa Cooper, but as soon as he felt the boy's eyes, the detective surrendered his full attention to the one who had requested the meeting. With a graceful bow, Sherlock bent at the waist in a respectful greeting and extended his hand toward the nine-year-old. Jeremy's face beamed and blushed with delight and excitedly he pumped Sherlock's hand with strength and vigor that made them both chuckle wholeheartedly.

 

Whilst he could not hear them, John trusted there would be no reason to remind Sherlock to be courteous. Rather, he imagined the sound of their mirth mingling. For the first time in a very long time, John saw a gentle brightness rise and linger in Sherlock's eyes.

 

_He was always good with kids. Hell, he is practically a big kid himself!_

 

This was one of those rare instances in which Sherlock showed his human side. Watching Sherlock with Jeremy reminded John of an unforgettably tender moment between Sherlock and Mrs. Hudson. She had bravely and cleverly concealed the camera phone from the CIA and although John had thought she was in shock, Sherlock had known better. With honest affection, Sherlock had praised their landlady's courage, hugging her protectively. She had gently stroked his hand and he had not recoiled from her touch. John remembered being deeply moved by their mutual regard. Then, as now, a warmth rose in his own chest as John witnessed the genuine connection between the detective and the brave boy; and like a door opening in a gust of wind, forgiveness that had been elusive for so many months—for his own and Sherlock's failures—swept in.

 

Unburdened of guilt and the nagging sense of betrayal, John exhaled, perhaps too loudly. Sherlock's eyes shot towards him, narrowed in analysis, and then widened in surprise as if he could read the change on John's face. Feeling exposed, John was relieved when a tap on his shoulder forced him to turn away.

 

Melissa Cooper, vying for John's attention, nodded politely and pointed to herself as if to make a personal introduction.

 

Trying to read her lips John could decipher a few words within the blocks of her speech.  _"Thank you for saving…"_ but the rest was lost and he shrugged sadly. "Sorry, I can't…" he waved toward his ears and choked on the words "hear you." He wasn't sure if he had actually spoken them aloud _._  Once he stopped channeling his concentration to read her lips, however, he realized her face was familiar, but he couldn't place where or when he might have seen her. He wondered if her attempts at thanks had been for his work as her doctor. With the number of patients he had seen throughout his career, John found that a patient completely out-of-context was sometimes hard to place.

 

Fleetingly Melissa met John's eyes with understanding in her own, until she shifted her gaze toward something behind him, presumably the office door. Her face opened with delight and her lips formed,  _here they are_. John had noticed a paper on the table flutter before he turned around to see Stan Cooper entering the room carrying in his arms the little girl in the sky-blue jacket.

 

In the next instant, John distinctly heard the girl's lilting voice exclaim, "Daddy! Daddy!" and the blood drained from his face…

 

ooOOoo


	13. Progress at last

**_ooOOoo_ **

**_GIFT OF SILENCE_ **

**_ooOOoo_ **

ooOOOoo

 

"—Daddy! Daddy!" The toddler in Stan Cooper's arms patted his cheeks as he puffed them with air. She giggled and squealed in delight, popping them with her dimpled hands. "Dad-dy!" Whilst still playing the game, father and daughter entered the patient-doctor conference room unaware of the turbulence they had caused—turbulence that took John's breath away.

 

When John thought he had heard Rosie's voice, the blood drained from his face, his knees buckled, and he slumped into the nearest upholstered chair. It seemed a grey mist had covered his eyes. A moment later, Sherlock was kneeling beside him, supporting the back of his head with one hand and holding a plastic water bottle to his lips.

 

John took a sip. Once the grey mist dispelled, the room became bright, too bright at first. He squinted until his eyes adjusted to his surroundings and he perceived the people in the room. Blinking again helped clear their blurry faces and speed up what had appeared to be their plodding movements. Swiftly, John felt his normalcy return, but it took him another second to register—his hearing had returned, too.

 

He could hear everything. The water made a sloshing sound in the pliant plastic bottle that popped as it puckered under the tight pressure of Sherlock's fingers; John heard the distinct swish of fabric caused by the friction of his own trousers rubbing against the upholstered seat when he repositioned himself in the soft chair, and he was aware of the ambient noise of the thrumming air-ventilation system. John could hear it all, but the realization that he was no longer deaf was more overwhelming than the sounds themselves.

 

"John, drink..." said the well-remembered voice. At Sherlock's insistence, John drank a little more. The cool water flowed across his tongue and slid down his throat, reviving him. Pushing the bottle away, John swiftly scanned the room in an attempt to connect the people in the office with their voices.

 

"Shall I call for assistance, Mr. Holmes?" The child psychologist, Dr. Sara Evans, stood at the wall phone with the receiver lifted in a neatly manicured hand, ready to act when given the signal. She spoke in deep tones fortressed with authority. Hers was an important role in this meeting, requiring that she follow prescribed guidelines especially when allegations of child sexual abuse—in this case attempted abuse—had been raised. Representing the Royal Marsden, Dr. Evans had arranged for the interview between the Coopers and the detective, offering them a neutral, private, and informal environment, free from unnecessary distractions. Her no-nonsense voice coupled with her professional dress and demeanor suggested she was trained and experienced in dealing with delicate issues.

 

Jeremy and Melissa's conversation with Sherlock had been interrupted by the disturbance of John's collapse. Immediately the detective had rushed to his friend's side leaving Melissa and Jeremy behind at the conference table. Keeping a respectful distance Jeremy peered inquisitively at John, his alert brown eyes widened in his moonface. "What happened, Mummy?" the prepubescent boy inquired in an audible stage whisper whilst tugging on the sleeve of the petite woman beside him.

 

Curling a comforting arm around Jeremy's shoulders, Melissa's whisper was gentle, fluid, and reassuring. "Dr. Watson had been injured when he rescued your sister. You remember, Jeremy. The doctor  _is_  getting better, just like you, but it's still a bit recent. He's probably a little dizzy. That's why Dr. Evans took the water bottle from that little refrigerator for Dr. Watson." A curtain of chestnut brown hair fell across one eye as she leant over Jeremy and pointed to the white compact refrigerator by the office door.

 

"I'm glad he's getting better too," Jeremy admitted. "He's our  _own_  special hero, isn't he?"

 

Tucking her hair back behind her ear, Melissa acknowledged Jeremy's question with a smile. "Just like you. You're  _both_  heroes for being so brave and dealing with so much. He was an army doctor who got wounded helping others. Now, he's a doctor who helps Mr. Holmes. You know all this because you and your dad like reading his blogs about Mr. Holmes' cases. Now that we know more about Dr. Watson _,_  we think he's very special, too, because he showed true courage when he rescued Skylar."

 

"Someday I will be a doctor  _and_  a detective too," Jeremy stated with absolute confidence. "And I know I already have courage because everybody says fighting cancer takes courage."

 

"Yes, it does," Melissa stifled a sniffle. "Loads and loads of courage, which you have."

 

Listening to every noise that reached his ears, John tilted his head back, reveling in the sound he had missed most of all—the human voice. For the first time since he had lost his hearing, he could close his eyes without feeling isolated in the void of silence. When he opened them, he met the detective's scrutiny with his own bewildered stare. Neither expressed their euphoria in words; it was all said in the arch of their eyebrows on impassive faces, until Sherlock cracked a satisfied smile and John returned the grin.

 

"Nappy changed successfully!" Stan Cooper had reported cheerfully to his wife upon entering the room, but after noticing everyone had become more subdued, he hushed his voice. "Hang on. Everything all right, then?"

 

"Dr. Watson doesn't feel good, Dad." Jeremy whispered loudly and pointed. "But Mr. Holmes is helping him. See."

 

Stan eyed the detective and the doctor who looked as though they were merely conferring about a case, but he showed respect for their privacy by whispering back, "I'm sure he'll be okay real soon. We've been looking forward to meeting him, haven't we?" Still holding Skylar, Stan sidled next to his wife, who slid off the nappy backpack from his shoulder and replaced it with a professional-looking leather shoulder bag. Stan was of average height and weight, but showed some muscle controlling the squirming toddler trying to leap from his arms to get to the floor. Once he had placed her securely on the ground, the little blond spitfire bounded toward Melissa and Jeremy as fast as her legs allowed. Stan exhaled with relief and slid his dark-rimmed glasses back down to the bridge of his nose. During his game with Skylar, he had raised his spectacles atop his head where they hid in his thick mane of honey-colored hair to keep them out of reach of grabbing fingers.

 

"Mummy!" Skylar pealed with excitement as she embraced her mother's knees. Extending her arms, she raised them above her head and waved. "Upw Pweese."

 

Melissa scooped up her daughter and immediately Skylar turned to Jeremy and patted his bald head. "Reemy, Reemy, pway?"

 

"Play later, Sky." Jeremy responded distractedly. He was absorbing everything transpiring between Sherlock Holmes and Dr. John Watson on the other side of the room.

 

"Mr. Holmes?" the psychologist pressed with a little more urgency. "I am ready to call for assistance."

 

Finally waving a dismissive hand and shaking his head, John replied. "No. I'm—" Hearing his own voice, John cupped both ears and faltered. "—hmmm. I'm fine." As he talked, his lower lip quivered slightly, but John was averse to creating a scene in public despite his tremendous relief. Summoning the self-control of the well-trained soldier, John commanded his feelings to stand down—for now. "It's fine, fine. Yes. Yes.  _Really._ " He repeated softly stopping at last when Sherlock clamped his hand down on John's wrist with a jolt. John threw him a look of thanks.

 

"Quite all right, is he?" Dr. Evans queried Sherlock with unmistakable incredulity.

 

Narrowing his eyes for a final inspection of his friend, Sherlock seemed satisfied. He rose from his kneeling position, thrust the water bottle into John's hand as if to disengage himself from any display of kindness, and replied with exaggerated nonchalance. "If Dr. Watson says he's fine, he _is_  the expert; he should know." Sherlock turned once more toward his friend and whispered with the side of his mouth. "Are you?"

 

Mortified by everyone watching, John scowled, fumbling to find the poise to reestablish his public face. "Give me another minute. It was a momentary confusion…" He darted his eyes, crinkled with sadness, toward the toddler whose voice nearly matched Rosie's, "…to suddenly hear…again." John bit his lip and dropped his chin to his chest, mumbling, "It was just a… surprise—"

 

"More of a shock I'd say, Dr. Watson," Dr. Evans consoled after she had hung up the phone. "To recover your hearing like this can be unnerving. Would you like a moment of privacy? If you feel up to it, we can step outside, just the two of us, to talk a minute." She gestured and appeared ready to assist John to the door.

 

Looking extremely uncomfortable with all the unnecessary harping, John settled deeper in his seat and took another sip from the water bottle.

 

"He's  _FINE!_ " Sherlock announced loudly and decisively waving the woman back. "Well now!" he stated clapping and rubbing his hands together. "We have a case to consider. Please take your seats." The detective gestured toward the conference table. The nurse and the psychologist instantly obeyed. Melissa had already seated herself with Skylar in her lap. Stan unslung his leather shoulder bag, placed it in front of him on the table, and slid into a chair; Jeremy took the one next to his dad.

 

Sherlock seemed genuinely eager to get on with the purpose of their meeting, although John also suspected that the detective was deliberately misdirecting everyone's attention with distracting gestures often used by master illusionists—so John could collect himself in relative privacy. Sherlock was quite adept at subtle diversionary tactics, and putting himself squarely in the spotlight was no great hardship for a man with his ego.

 

Yet, John noted that Sherlock was not the only magician in the room. Melissa had employed her own diversion with a simple babycup of raisins that kept Skylar quietly preoccupied.

 

With the grace of a showman, Sherlock moved toward the conference table. Raising his vocal tone to elevate the enthusiasm in the room, Sherlock addressed the nine-year-old with boyish energy. "So Jeremy, what were you about to tell me before?" As everyone turned toward the boy, Sherlock twisted around, caught John's eye, and flashed a quick conspiratorial smile for only John to see.

 

John welcomed Sherlock's distraction display. As he recovered his composure, he wondered how much Sherlock had known about the Cooper family  _before_  they had arrived for today's meeting. When had the detective learnt that the random child on the street, the girl that John had spontaneously rushed to rescue, was Jeremy's sister? Sherlock must have acquired the pertinent information about the identity of the little girl at the accident scene, but of course at that time, John was in no condition to care.

 

Finding out this way was akin to having ice cold water thrown in his face.  _Had Sherlock planned this mad scheme to shock me into hearing again?_ As much as John wanted to dismiss this suspicion, he couldn't.

 

Yet, it had worked—John was no longer deaf— and an overwhelming gratitude filled him. Irritated that this had happened in a public place, John figured in this case the  _ends_  truly did _justify the means_. Setting aside his embarrassment, containing his relief, and averting an awkward outburst of  _Oh, how I missed this!,_  John quietly rejoiced in being able to listen to the conversations circling the room. Only much later would he consider why the words "Daddy, Daddy" had triggered his recovery.

 

"Oh, yes, Mr. Holmes!" Jeremy turned eagerly toward his father. "Show him, Dad!"

 

"Show me what?" Sherlock directed his question to Stan.

 

'I've got it here." Stan patted his leather shoulder bag and unlatched the clasps as Jeremy chatted with exuberance. "You see, when Nurse Hardings said  _this_  was a case for Sherlock Holmes, I knew it was true."

 

Sherlock's turned toward the nurse. Responding to his questioning look, Jill Hardings explained. "It took me two days to get the nerve to see you both, Mr. Holmes, but you see, after Jeremy scared away the man, the two of us had a little chat about what had happened and how bizarre it was. That's when he was telling me how you and Dr. Watson solve mysteries. What a mystery this was, right, Jeremy? Why would a doctor behave so strangely?"

 

Jeremy nodded his face beaming with pride.

 

"And I promised him, after talking with his parents, that I would go see if any of this would interest you. I want to assure you, Mr. Holmes, Jeremy and I only discussed what happened here. We did not talk about any other occurrences  _certain_  people might have known from the past. That would be something you would know more about." The nurse was making every effort to clarify that she had not told Jeremy about her cousin Meghan and Aiden's case from the states.

 

"Here it is!" Stan pulled a clear glassine envelope, folded, and sealed shut. The object within was wrapped in pharmaceutical paper. "We took Jeremy home that same afternoon of the incident, and this is what we found—"

 

"—And that's when I saw it!" Jeremy broke in. "It had fallen in my hospital bag."

 

"What is it?" Dr. Evan blurted out as she stared at the envelope. Her curiosity had got the better of her professional reserve, but no one seemed to mind. Everyone was equally curious.

 

"One blue latex glove," Stan answered solemnly. "We believe it's from the suspect."

 

Sherlock's mouth dropped ever so slightly open; his forehead furrowed as if he was computing all the possibilities of such evidence.

 

Encouraged by the detective's reaction, Jeremy continued. "The man with the black hair and mustache had blue gloves sticking out of his pocket when he came in! One must have dropped into my hospital bag under the bed! My bag landed there when I kicked it off the bed after changing into my pajamas. He was the only visitor I had that day and I went home after that, so it can't be anybody else's glove, can it?"

 

"It's true. After the incident, Stan and I decided we'd rescheduled Jeremy's treatment for the following week so I could take Jeremy home that day," Melissa interjected, "But before I could get Jeremy, I had to pick up Skylar from the babyminder and leave her with my neighbor. When I got back to the hospital it was nearly suppertime although meals had not yet been served. I made quick work of changing him back to his regular clothes and just threw his pajamas into the bag without looking before zipping it up."

 

"I saw it  _first_ when we got home," Jeremy hiccoughed with excitement, "and 'cause of what I learnt from your blog about Sherlock Holmes, Dr. Watson, I knew I shouldn't touch it. I screamed for my Dad…"

 

"You see," Stan disclosed modestly, "I work in a private company that does research and development for  _The_   _International Association for Property and Evidence_. We examine and establish more effective international forensic protocols. On occasion I am the training instructor demonstrating how to properly package evidence. Fortunately my demonstration kit was home and when I saw the glove lying at the bottom of the hospital bag I sealed it the best I could under the circumstances to preserve it. I realize this glove is inadmissible in a court of law as it has been compromised and didn't follow the chain of evidence, but I thought it might still have some integrity, especially as I learnt you might be working on the case, Mr. Holmes. If we knew who this man was, we might be able to watch and wait until he tried again."

 

"You've had this evidence for  _three_ weeks." Sherlock shook his head skeptically and seemed almost disappointed. "After all this time, I fear any fingerprints from that glove will be inconclusive. Usually gloves removed within the first two hours have the best results with any of the various fingerprint powders. Gloves removed the previous day benefit greatly by cyanoacrylate fuming, followed by application of fluorescent powder. However, I am sure you are aware, Mr. Cooper, that developing suitable ridge detail on the interior side of surgical-type gloves must be done carefully, with  _timing_  being an extremely important factor."

 

"Yes I know," Stan nodded agreeably, but he did not seem as crestfallen as Sherlock.

 

"I thought you'd be happy, Mr. Holmes." Jeremy frowned with disappointment.

 

Sherlock turned to the puzzled Jeremy. With accompanying gestures to enhance the boy's understanding, he explained the process. "Fingerprints can be collected because the tight-fitting, non-porous gloves cause considerable perspiration of the hands and this perspiration mixes with the powder already in the glove. Typically these gloves are  _peeled off_ , leaving the fingerprints intact as long as there is no other contact that might  _smear_ them. Fingerprint powders—like magnetic or florescent powders—attach to the sweat and human oil residues left on the inside of the glove so we can read the prints. But getting those prints lifted before the perspiration 'evaporates' and interferes with the forensic process must be done quickly to get the clearest prints."

 

"There is a photographic process too…" Stan reminded the detective.

 

"Of course, using photographic techniques can still render sound evidence," Sherlock concurred, "but the irregular shape of latex gloves, especially the fingers, makes taking usable comparison photographs a problem especially if the glove fingers have to be flattened or smoothed out. Otherwise, the glove's irregular shape of the curved finger can mean unusable comparison photographs for the latent print examiner. I know plastic 'fingers' inserted into the latex glove is a more successful technique, but still all this depends on the  _timing_  of the forensic analysis."

 

During the course of the running conversation, John had risen to his feet to listen, although he felt somewhat hesitant about joining the exchange. However, when Stan introduced the blue latex glove, John was fully drawn into the discussion, his enthusiasm sparked by curiosity. "So, Sherlock…" John crossed the room to stand beside the detective. "You're saying that after all this time, the glove may not have retained enough information to give us readily identifiable prints?" Although it was still odd to hear his own voice through the auditory canals, John felt renewed strength in his ability to speak and be heard.

 

Sherlock, too, seemed pleased and could not resist giving John an approving glance.

 

"Mr. Holmes is right about that, Dr. Watson" Stan Cooper agreed. "This was yet another reason why I could not bring this glove to the police for evidence." Stan smiled suddenly. "But the fingerprints are not half as important as what  _else_  I found with the glove."

 

Sherlock thought for a moment, tapping his lower lip with his index finger, and then raised the same finger in the air, his eyes bright with delight. "You found a hair!"

 

"Yes!" Stan nodded empathically. "A hair stuck in the dried perspiration inside the finger of the glove! This might presumably be DNA of the man who wore the glove."

 

"A hair! Why have you not brought this to the police?" John was  _thrilled_  to hear the excitement in his own voice.

 

"The police wouldn't touch it!" Stan grimaced with frustration. "No crime had actually been committed so they would not pursue the case. The evidence is still compromised by not being processed according to procedure, and except for Nurse Hardings's interest in working with us, the hospital administrators did not want to initiate a witch hunt when there was no video evidence to support Jeremy's allegation."

 

"You knew Nurse Hardings contacted us and we accepted the case. Why didn't you bring this evidence immediately to us instead?" Sherlock had begun to fidget as if to suppress an annoying tic or his unbridled enthusiasm.

 

"Because the next day, Jeremy had a precipitous drop in this white blood count, and he was back in hospital. Apparently, his white count hadn't rebounded enough after the previous treatment. It's happened before, but this time, it was  _a bit_ concerning, if you know what I mean." Stan tried not to upset the young ears listening to their conversation. "There were some complications from his weakened immune system— _anyway_ ; it took more than a week for Jeremy's counts to rise. The day Melissa was heading over to the RM to bring Jeremy home was the day of that horrible car accident and explosion. Thank you Dr. Watson!" Stan interrupted his narrative, rose from his chair, and shook John's hand, "for rescuing Skylar. I've wanted to tell you that face-to-face for weeks! I'm so glad we have the opportunity now." Releasing John's hand with an extra pat, Stan stepped back, his eyes filled with emotion. "We learnt about your injuries and we did not want to impose—"

 

John nodded. How well he understood the father's fright. After clearing his throat, he offered Stan a polite smile but dared not try to speak.

 

"So, what now? Jeremy jumped up from his chair to stand next to his father and appealed to the famous detective. "Can you do something with this, Mr. Holmes?"

 

"I will do my best, Jeremy." Sherlock squatted to face the young sleuth and rested his hand on the boy's shoulder. "It  _is_ evidence. What it has to tell us is still a mystery, but we can at least make a determination that might help us tip off the police." Sherlock smiled into the awestruck face of nine-year-old. "First, let me say I am happy you are better, Jeremy. You are like my good friend here," Sherlock pointed to John. "With your clever thinking you have given this case a boost. The car accident two weeks ago may have disrupted our plans, but thanks to you, both Dr. Watson and I can now make that long overdue appointment with someone in pathology who can help us."

 

"Yaaay!" Skylar shouted and clapped her hands.

 

88OO88

 

"Sherlock!" John grumbled as they strode through the hospital lobby to the street. "You could have prepared me for this meeting."

 

"In what way?" Sherlock squinted in the daylight as they exited the building. He adjusted the collar of his greatcoat with his right hand as the evidence envelope was tucked under his left arm.

 

"In  _every_ way!"

 

"I sent you an email."

 

"The email didn't mention this important fact that the little girl I rescued was Jeremy's sister and that I would be meeting the family who, who, …" John stammered in exasperation, raising a hand to his forehead to block the sunlight from his eyes as they walked. "…who had some emotional connection to what happened to me… and how it might affect me! Letting me know in advance would be the proper thing. Don't you understand any of this?"

 

"Thought never occurred." In a burst of energy, Sherlock outpaced John.

 

"Don't give me that!" Determined not to be left behind, John double-stepped to both get ahead of Sherlock and slow the detective's advance." _All_  thoughts occur to you! Did you  _like_  putting me into shock in front of a room full of people?"

 

Sherlock halted and faced John, showing his annoyance. "Not a roomful. Only five and a fraction, if you count the toddler. Your hearing is back, that is the important thing. I would like to take credit for orchestrating your recovery, but seriously, John! You are an unpredictably emotional human being who wears his heart on his sleeve most of the time. Who knows when you might have decided to override your stubborn cortex and unblock your ears? I had little to do with it."

 

"This was a shock. Quite unforgiveable!" John fumed, fumbling for reasons that were actually unclear to him why he might have felt duped. "You set me up…."

 

"Unforgiveable?  _Really?_  Were you not just complaining how frustrating it was to know you should be able to hear, but still could not?"

 

John knew he was quickly losing ground in the argument. "What's unforgiveable was how you led me into the meeting without warning me. Don't deny that in the back of your mind it was yet another experiment on the 'funny little,  _boring_  brain' of John Watson to see what makes him tick—"

 

Sherlock groaned, rolled his eyes and glared intensely at his companion. "Whilst your accusations about past experiments are not totally baseless—yes, I have used those very words at various times—in this instance, I had not contrived to restore you hearing in this manner. I must admit, all that time I spent trying to fix you, I should have preferred to have observed the process of your recovery whilst taking notes for my research. So, accuse me of whatever you'd like, but the only thing of which I am guilty is not telling you who the Coopers were. I suspected you might have been reluctant and avoided seeing the Coopers altogether if you expected a word of praise regarding your heroism were to be mentioned. But as Jeremy wanted to meet the famous detective—also your fault for elevating my reputation to that level of celebrity—it was an opportunity to interview the child who was nearly a victim of our suspect. There is no substitute for first-hand evidence."

 

John had been listening to Sherlock's argument and quietly staring at his shoes. Sherlock's rapid-fire speech was an earful for anyone—especially for a person recovering his auditory processing—but the detective assertions rang true leaving no further room for discussion. With his head still bent, John's silence was broken by a snort. His shoulders began shaking, and when he finally looked up, John was grinning from ear to ear and trying to stifle a laugh.

 

"What?" Sherlock pulled back in surprise.

 

"What we just did here—argue—was not possible when I was deaf! Never thought I'd miss this—" John snickered, "—losing a  _verbal_ argument with you."

 

Having no immunity to John's contagious giggles, Sherlock succumbed to his own boyish chuckles in a catharsis they both sorely needed.

 

After, as they resumed walking back to the South Kensington Station, Sherlock kept his eyes forward. "I am quite relieved your hearing has returned but I do wonder what triggered your reaction back there."

 

It sounded like a rhetorical question, but John knew better. "Maybe, it's not  _what_  but  _why_ ," John muttered under his breath. He realized he did not have the answer and his lips pressed together in a thin line indicating he would say no more. There was a nagging truth hidden in the silence of his mind, a silence not unlike Sherlock's moody reticence that had begun in January after the fire. Somehow this silence was linked to the sound that brought back his hearing.  _What nagging truth do I not want to hear?_

 

Distracted, John was alerted by the blare of a car horn. Instinctively, he stopped on the kerb just as Sherlock's arm flung out protectively to block him from stepping into the street.

 

When John shot a startled look at his friend, Sherlock grinned warmly. "Yup! Welcome back to surroundsound."

 

ooOOoo


	14. Hidden Truths

**_ooOOoo_ **

**_GIFT OF SILENCE_ **

**_ooOOoo_ **

**_ooOOoo_ **

 

 

**_Friday, 26 May, 2017_ **

 

 

Adjusting the fine focus to analyze the slide, Dr. Molly Hooper peered through the binocular lens of the polarizing microscope. She was in a talkative mood. "You know, too often, forensic DNA analysis from a hair sample is highly overestimated and often inconclusive."

 

Whilst both Sherlock and John knew that fact, they were decidedly not pleased to hear Molly preface her analysis of the hair in the blue latex glove with this remark. Standing in Barts' pathology lab, they waited as politely as possible—well John waited politely—for her to finish viewing tissue samples she had made from a recent autopsy. By comparison to John's self-control, Sherlock had been shifting from foot to foot, transitioned to pacing a bit, and settled finally for drumming his fingers on the worktop.

 

Molly ignored him.

 

Sherlock seemed annoyed that his nearly three days of waiting for Molly's expert analysis after he had dropped off the sample—sans John who had gone directly home that Tuesday afternoon totally drained by his shocking recovery—had not reaped him special privilege. Yet, the amazing Hooper had done her best to "push" the process quickly through the seventy-two-hour window allocated for the most urgent cases.

 

Bright and early on Friday morning, Sherlock had been standing watch like a sentry when she came to open the lab. By the time several other pathologists and John had arrived a bit later, Molly had already begun her morning routine of logging data from the time-sensitive overnight cultures and entering the results in the medical record; all the while, Sherlock had been following her around the lab. Despite the hurry, she had deliberately stopped everything to greet John with a genuine smile and a welcoming hug. "We missed you, John! I hope Sherlock told you how often we rang to see how you were doing?"

 

"Not at all," John had answered truthfully. "He must've deleted it," and shot Sherlock a bruised look, although the detective did not bother to meet his gaze.

 

Not much later her statement about the hair sample quashed their hopeful mood.

 

"Even when hairs do have the hair roots…," she continued speaking about their case whilst working on another, "…the probability of successful extraction of a complete DNA profile using standard PCR technology is somewhere between sixty and seventy percent. In rare cases, analysis can yield a nuclear DNA profile when hairs do not have the root attached only if the living hair cells are still present at the tip of the hair shaft or where there has been an incomplete breakdown of nuclear DNA during the process of cornification—"

 

"Taking long-winded lecturing lessons from Sherlock, are we?" John muttered to himself—he  _thought_ he had said it softly enough.

 

" _My_  hearing is just fine, thank you." Molly raised her head from the lens. Her warm brown eyes narrowed on John. "I see you have fully recovered your snark, John."

 

John felt properly rebuked. Sherlock seemed pleased for once that Molly had directed her barbs at John and not him, although he could not quite control the impulse to rub his own cheek as he recalled the unforgettable slaps from her deceptively powerful hands.

 

A blink later, Molly's cheeks dimpled as she smiled. "Before I was  _interrupted_ , I was going to say that I did locate minute particles of flaky skin and blood. One of the glove's fingers had not been completely turned inside out. This person apparently had a terrible itch and scratched himself enough to draw blood. In fact, this man had especially dry skin and constantly shed tiny amounts of DNA all over the glove. Fortunately the evidence-collection process preserved these flakes of skin so I could run a proper DNA analysis." She paused for effect as if she really had been taking lessons on grandstanding from Sherlock.

 

"Well?" John burst with curiosity.

 

"Did I mention this glove was on the left hand?"

 

"Molly Hooper!" Sherlock snapped. "Get  _ON_  with it!"

 

"It's a match to the DNA that you gave me of your suspect," she said with conviction and pride. "And as I looked through police records it does match a man named Francis Prius Willard, a doctor who practiced in the Cambridge area about sixteen years ago. There was a police file with some samples."

 

"We got him!" Sherlock leapt for joy, twirled, and with a triumphant arm pull, gave a resounding, "Splendid!  _Precisely_  what we needed, yes!"

 

Molly had long overcome the crush she had for the detective, but Sherlock's excited reaction raised a girlish blush to her cheeks.

 

"Thank you, Molly!" Also greatly elated, John recovered from his jubilant display by straightening his shirt tails and exhaling. "What now?"

 

"Now we must find him. Seventeen days, he's been off the CCTV cameras—where has he been all this time?"

 

 

ooOOOoo

 

"So this is how a person can jump out a moving car and survive… although it does warn that you could still die doing this stunt." Back at Sherlock's flat, John was at the desk browsing on the detective's laptop and reading from a site that demonstrated the technique.  _"_ It says here _…'Look out for any possible soft landing spots such as grass or soft dirt. Recognizing that you will be moving at the speed of your car, time your jump to roll into the best spot possible.'"_

 

"Not helpful, John," Sherlock groused sitting in his leather chair with his knees pulled up and his arms wrapped around them. "There were no soft spots in Fulham Road."

 

Undeterred by his friend's remark, John continued reading, "' _The success of this maneuver will increase dramatically if you use a three-step process—'"_

 

"—I know, I know, I know!" Sherlock moaned. "' _PICK-JAM-JUMP! PICK a spot five seconds ahead of the car where there are no poles, bridges or obstacles. JAM the gearshift in park using both hands; immediately open the door and JUMP looking to the rear of the car and with your palms crossed firmly over chest as if you are hugging yourself_.'"

 

Leaping from his own speeding thoughts, Sherlock launched himself out of his chair to pace, reciting the remainder of the article verbatim with exaggerated gestures and in a voice imitative of a newsreader: " _'Open the door and make sure it doesn't close on you in the middle of the jump. Angle your body forwards and to the side. You want to aim in a direction that will take you away from the car and other traffic. Do not aim behind the direction of the vehicle. Jump out body first. Try to keep your head and arms tight to your body. Make sure you roll. You don't want to belly-flop onto a road.'_ "

 

"I guess you've read this already, then…" John closed the laptop.

 

"John, I think we're looking at this all wrong. They're talking about cars traveling at 35mph or greater. He may not have been traveling so fast. There were tread marks from the tyres, indicating he was braking hard and fast, enough to burn the rubber, so I suspect he may have decelerated to a less harmful speed _—_ at least one that wouldn't kill him outright _—_ before leaving the vehicle. After he abandoned the car, its forward momentum and trajectory mowed down several parked bikes at a bike stand and a stanchion _—_ rupturing the gas tank _—_ before hitting the light post. The chemical bomb made from the volatile TATP exploded after impact."

 

"Still, Sherlock," John tapped a finger against his lips as he expressed his thoughts aloud. "Regardless of how slow the vehicle might have been traveling, his ejection would have hurt as he could only land on concrete, likely hitting the kerb, too."

 

Sherlock suddenly turned and pointed at John. "Yet, he refused medical attention. How did he evade detection? It would have been obvious if he had a head gash, or had broken his leg or sprained an ankle, he couldn't have walked away. What about an arm? A collar bone, something broken or sprained on an extremity would have been apparent; it might have appeared limp, disjointed, and even if the constables hadn't notice, the paramedics arriving would have—"

 

"—If he fractured his ribs," John jumped in, "it would be painful, but he could mask the injury long enough, claiming the wind was knocked out of him, to walk away from the scene."

 

"Leave the scene and go where, John? He had moved out of his flat. He had just lost his means of transport and all his belongings, except for what he might have been carrying on his person. Even if he got off without a scratch, he could not have made the transition to his new identity if all the new documentation had been lost in the car fire. In addition, he was no longer under the radar. The police had now  _identified_ him as Will Franks, medical lab technician at the Institute of Cancer Research, through his car ownership. It would be harder for him to just disappear and get away as he clearly had planned. Think, John! Where would you go if you lost everything?"

 

John did  _not_  have to think. Without hesitation, he whispered audibly, "I'd turn to my  _trusted_ friend." Each word was pronounced slowly and deliberately as if John was testing the sound of this truth.

 

Sherlock halted. The word  _trusted_  seemed to surprise him. Acknowledging John's confidence with a deferential nod, Sherlock regarded his friend with a relieved smile. After a contemplative pause, he dropped his gaze to the floor, clasped his hands behind his back, and resumed pacing.

 

"But  _who_  are his 'trusted' friends? Did he have any since returning to England after spending over ten years in North America?"

 

"There still could be some family…colleagues…former lovers here?" John suggested.

 

"I had checked during our preliminary investigation. No family left in the UK. Colleagues only if they were either unaware of his deviancy or were complicit with it. Lovers? Doesn't seem to have much in that area over the age of twelve. But there are also victims. A  _trail_ of them. And he was being stalked. Two years ago, he started this fugitive's life …What  _am_ I missing?" Sherlock clutched his head with both hands before flinging them up in a wild gesture of frustration and crossed the room to the south window overlooking Baker Street. Breathing deeply to restore his perspective, he pushed the drape aside and after glancing down into the street, he spoke with a calmer voice. "I don't suppose you remember anything about the car explosion, John."

 

"Some of it is coming back to me, but my memories seem selective. I even wonder if I can trust what I  _think_  I remember given I totally obliterated the Willard/Prius case from my mind for nearly two weeks. Why do you ask?

 

"I was thinking your observations might stimulate my memories." Sherlock's tone had gone pedantic.

 

"What? Why?" John joined Sherlock at the window. "You certainly must have every detail of what happened stored in your Mind Palace." He tapped his own temple for emphasis.

 

"I thought you would have recognized this by now." Sherlock remained where he was staring out the window, his voice neutral and remote. "It doesn't exactly work like that. As much as everyone  _thinks_  I am a machine," Sherlock flashed a smirk at John before returning his gaze to the pedestrian distractions in Baker Street "I am not a video recorder. Total recall is not a given. I have to  _employ_  my powers of observation to retain information about a scene and store it for future use. True, I may have had a natural proclivity at the outset. What has become a substantial talent for paying attention to details began when I was quite young. Now it has become second nature to me after years of intensive self-training, making me _seem_ extraordinary to all those with underworked brains, but it still  _requires_  me to notice the little details."

 

Sherlock turned his back toward John, but John watched the detective's impassive face mirrored in the window pane.

 

"I have often told you my methods, John. To analyze a circumstance thoroughly requires detachment to ensure there will be no personal involvement—the very detachment you've so often derided me for—thereby affording me the overview I need. Keeping my distance has always helped me perfect my craft, except—" there was a long pause and the reflected face grimaced with disgust, "I can no longer pride myself for my impeccable ratiocination; I have discovered that I am flawed. I assure you, it is a rare occurrence, but when there  _is_  personal involvement, it interferes with the process making it much more difficult to stay aloof and observe…."

 

Sherlock waved off his irritation with a pass of his hand as if he would say no more.

 

John waited quietly, understanding there was more waiting to be said.

 

Overcoming his reluctance to speak further, Sherlock acquiesced to John's silence and continued. "When the car exploded...my customary detachment failed me. Rather, given the occasion of the blast and your likely injury— I was…it was …inordinately focusing … as I ran toward you, my powers of observation became concentrated on assessing your condition. Those details are still quite vivid—you lying in the street after the blast, the look on the faces in the crowd surrounding you when I ordered them to stand aside and let me pass, the little girl handed off to her anxious mother, the manner of your incapacitation and disorientation, the  _interminable_  wait for the paramedics. Farther than that ring of people around you, I did not see. It was as if I had blinkers on. Subsequently, I realized that I had failed to maintain the comprehensive view that might have yielded more clues—quite frustrating as I could use those details to help us now. But I do not have them." Sherlock drew in a deep breath of disappointment and ran his hand through his tangled curls.

 

Although Sherlock had not referenced the comment, John heard it in his mind, plain as day: _'Caring is not an advantage!'_

 

The first time John had learnt that unforgettable phrase had been nearly five months ago. He had overheard Sherlock and Mycroft in an extremely heated disagreement as he ascended the seventeen steps. The older brother had snapped it like a whip against the younger, but John's unannounced appearance at Baker Street interrupted them both before there had been verbal retaliation. Whilst the Holmes brothers normally bore little resemblance to each other, during this moment when both faces stared at John, their expressions could not have been more polarizing—one ice, the other fire. Almost instantly, their masks reappeared, but behind the neutral façade of their recomposed faces, John could see the frosty indifference within Mycroft's eyes and a burning rage in Sherlock's.

 

No more was said, but after that dispute, Mycroft had kept his distance, and Sherlock had become withdrawn and brooding. The brothers' discord seemed irreparable.

 

Yet ever since, John had become keenly aware of how this belief,  _Caring is not an advantage,_ sculpted both brothers' lives. Even now, John imagined he could hear its echoes in Sherlock's revelation; except John heard the other message hidden within the detective's words—that he was the focus of Sherlock's  _caring_ —it came through loud and clear, and moved him.

 

"Hang on!" John averted an awkward reply as an idea took root from the seed planted by Sherlock's admission. "You say you  _observed_  the faces in the crowd." John cleared his throat. "Is it possible, Sherlock, that the criminal, I mean the one who planted the bomb, returned to the scene of the crime—the car accident—because he got off watching his intended victim blow up?" The longer John spoke, the more convinced he became. "Do you think he was hidden in plain sight in the crowd, watching what happened? And seeing his victim get away..."

 

" _Brilliant_ , John!" Sherlock roared. "You may not be a  _genius_ , but you sometimes think like one! Attempted murder with explosives is not very precise as killing methods go. Certainly the bomber would stay nearby to ensure all had gone smoothly." Squeezing his eyes shut, Sherlock appeared to be sorting through images in his Mind Palace, animatedly swiping at an invisible array of spectators who he remembered encircled his injured friend.

 

Within a few seconds of ordinary time, his eyes reopened and beamed with satisfaction.

 

"Yes! There was a man standing among the group of people encircling you. He was not as morbidly curious about you as the others were. He wore an ID badge—was in a health professional's uniform—a nurse's, yet he had not offered to give you first aid as we waited for help. Rather, he kept looking around, searching, and he drifted off once the paramedics wheeled the trolley toward you. The other onlookers stayed to gawk. I saw him greet another man, a balding fellow with a slight limp walking away from the cluster of constables…they both walked off together."

 

"Fantastic, Sherlock!" John grinned. "We can start checking the roster of nurses at the RM and other local hospitals to see who might fit your description—"

 

"Not necessary, John." Sherlock shook his head. "But I think Willard/Prius may be in danger."

 

"Huh? Why?"

 

"We have our Good Samaritan, and if I am right, our stalker-bomber all wrapped up in one man—Keith Barnet."

 

"Sorry! Have we encountered him before in this investigation?"

 

"You have not, but perhaps I have." Sherlock's voice sounded distant as he retreated in thought.

 

"Well how the  _bloody hell_  do you know his name?"

 

"It was in block letters on his Royal Marsden Hospital ID badge!"

 

88**88

ooOOOoo


	15. Fractures and Bolt Holes

**Gift of Silence**

 

888***888

 

**ooOOoo**

 

Once he had disclosed the nurse's name on the ID badge, Sherlock had sunk into his leather chair and retreated deep into his Mind Palace. He gave no explanation about what he was looking for or how long he'd be gone, but John was certain the name Keith Barnet had triggered this intense search.

 

Expecting Sherlock to be absent for a while, John handled the practical matters by ringing their client, Jill Hardings, and inquiring if she knew anything about her colleague at the Royal Marsden Hospital. Although she was unfamiliar with Barnet's name, she had promised to ring back after checking the hospital's staff registry.

 

John glanced at the preoccupied detective and sighed with resignation. It did not look as though Sherlock would be resurfacing soon and Detective Inspector Greg Lestrade needed to be apprised promptly. It would be a bit awkward for John to be the liaison. He had not spoken with the DI since his injury. Forcing himself to overcome his reluctance, John rang up Greg to inform him about their latest developments and suspicions.

 

"Lestrade." The DI had answered with clipped formality.

 

"Hey, Greg—" There was a long pause. John filled the uncomfortable gap by reporting on Sherlock's observations to which Lestrade responded with the customary give-and-take a detective inspector would ordinarily ask a caller offering a tip. However, once the business was out of the way, Greg had wasted no time in side-tracking the conversation.

 

"What gives, mate?" His tone had shifted from formal to personal. "It's been  _ages,_  John."

 

"Yeah. Sorry."

 

"No strings, y'know…just wondering."

 

When times were comparably good John had enjoyed having a go at pub night with the DI for the simplest of reasons—camaraderie. Sharing a pint or two loosened their tongues, dropped their inhibitions, and small talk became meaningful conversations. Over time these pub nights transformed their working relationship into an easy friendship. Whilst it was true John was reminded of his former service pals when he was out with Greg—the most level-headed, down-to-earth civilian this side of the army—John had also recognized in Lestrade a colleague who genuinely appreciated Sherlock's genius; what's more, the DI actually approved of John's role in buffering that _bloody_  bastard's arrogance during their cases. Later, John would learn the depth of Greg's regard for them both when the DI proved to be the one friend on the force who believed Sherlock was not a fake.

 

"You okay, then?" Greg had continued in his no-nonsense tone. "At least the ears have mended?"

 

"Yeah, I'm fine, Greg. Seriously, I'm good."

 

"Good, you say.  _Real_ -ly?" With a strong emphasis on the "real," the DI's talent for interrogation was an even more powerful tool when he asked as a friend.

 

John had wanted to shrug off Greg's concern, except, after a pause, he had reconsidered and allowed some truth to bleed through his words. "Considering everything…..yeah, getting better…slowly…. It couldn't have got much worse, now could it?"

 

 _"Worse? Jesus,_  John!" The gravelly voice had deepened with genuine exasperation. "What you  _and_  Sherlock have been through since…"

 

Greg hardly needed to mention every ordeal they had endured from the moment that Moriarty's  _"miss me?"_  had hit the airwaves. John grasped his meaning. But ever since the tragic New Year's Eve fire, John had been unable to deal with the sympathy of well-meaning friends and kept his distance even from Greg. Avoidance had always been safer—it had worked for him when Sherlock had leapt to his "death" off St. Bart's. It had also been his most successful coping mechanism during his recent convalescence from the car bomb.

 

"Bollocks, John!" Greg continued. "I've gotta hand it to you both. Lesser men would have crumbled long ago." Greg had cleared his throat and dropped the volume. "How 'bout we go out for a pint—soon—for old time's sake?"

 

Listening to Greg's honest sentiments, John had felt awkward that he had not upheld his end of their friendship. Despite agreeing to meet Greg in a few days at their favorite pub, John knew he would be cancelling. How could he explain that he was still having trouble acclimating to life as normal—not only because the past two weeks had been a living hell of sound deprivation—but because having a pint with a friend was  _too_ ordinary,  _too_ normal, and John had lost his chance at a normal life five months ago?

 

A survivor's guilt, similar to the one he had experienced after Sherlock's plummet off Barts' roof, haunted him, as if it were a betrayal to find happiness in anyone or anything. The deep ache of his mourning period for his best friend had lasted the entire two years. How much longer would he mourn for his lost wife and child?

 

Sensing John's reluctance, Greg had backed off, but not without a last effort to give a boost to the old Watson. "You're a survivor, mate. You've always been. Promise you won't be so hard on yourself—"

 

Greg's solid grasp of the important things had often heartened John. Maybe Lestrade hadn't always been so self-aware, but after the DI's marriage had failed, he had obviously pulled himself together and was better for it.  _Cherchez la femme!_

 

Comparing himself to Lestrade, John was uncertain when he might be reconciled to such a loss, especially as his marriage had ended in tragedy not by divorce, but seeing Greg's success gave John marginal hope.

 

After he had ended his call with Greg, John stood in Sherlock's flat —his  _former_  flat—and relished the ambient soundscape. The familiar tick of the clock, the clank of the water pipes within the walls, the occasional blare of a car horn that penetrated the sound barrier of the closed window were somehow soothing, and if he listened hard enough, he was certain he could hear Sherlock's soft breaths. Unlike the dead quiet of his own suburban home, within this flat at Baker Street life still went on and exciting things happened. In that moment it all felt right. As nostalgia swept over him with a fierce longing for those simpler times, John wished he belonged back at 221B. Shaking his head in resistance to the allure of living in the past, John turned toward the kitchen and set his mind on a distraction—tea.

 

"Tell me about a ribcage fracture, John." Sherlock finally broke his long silence. With his fingers tented against his lips, his brows knitted, and his keen eyes seeming to stare into the depth of his thoughts, his question was the first sign of his reemergence from his Mind Palace. Even so, his voice, like a somnambulist's, sounded distant. "What kind of medical attention would one need?"

 

John had just nicked a shop-bought biscuit from a half-emptied tin while preparing the tea. Sherlock's voice from the sitting room had startled him—actually being able to hear Sherlock again still had novelty value. He swallowed quickly, took a sip of hot tea to wash the biscuit down, which he instantly regretted since his tongue was now scalded, and cleared his throat.

 

"Recovery depends on the precise nature of the fracture, of course." John carried both mugs of tea to the sitting room, placed them on his side table and headed back for the plate of biscuits. "As long as the lung has not been punctured, a person does not need to be in hospital to take care of a broken or bruised rib. The injury will heal on its own, but managing the pain is very important because each deep breath or cough will hurt. And especially during those first few days after the injury, moving around and turning in bed is quite painful."

 

Arranging the small plate between the mugs, John carefully slid the table closer to Sherlock so they could both reach the biscuits. After, he settled into his armchair. "The danger exists if a patient resorts to taking shallow breaths and tries to avoid pain by not coughing. That can lead to  _atelectasis_ —collapse of the lung alveoli, sorry, air sacks—"

 

"—I know what alveoli are," Sherlock objected curtly.

 

"Right, 'course.  _Atelectasis_  leads to a greater risk of a chest infection. As a doctor, Willard/Prius would be aware of such a risk, so too would Nurse Keith Barnet."

 

"So he is unlikely to die of his injuries," Sherlock confirmed.

 

"Well, Barnet's going to be sorely disappointed if that had been his expectation, but he might find some consolation in that Willard/Prius, AKA Franks, is in some pain and perhaps in want of some pain management."

 

"Tell me about pain relief." As the steam rose in a column over the tea mug, Sherlock's eyes focused, his body relaxed, and the stony expression that had chiseled his face moments before had smoothed.

 

"What can I tell you that you don't already know through your own medical and  _practical_  experiences?" John arched his brows and eyed his friend shrewdly as his blew the steam from his mug.

 

"Humor me." Sherlock met John's glance with an openness, undaunted by the disapproval in John's tone. "It is better when I hear it out loud…from you."

 

"HO-kay." John toned down his criticism and leant back in his armchair holding the mug and switched to his clinician's voice. "Pain relief for bruised ribs is generally paracetamol and non-steroidal anti-inflammatory drugs, such as naproxen, ibuprofen or aspirin. For moderate-to-severe pain, the patient can take paracetamol and codeine together but studies suggest the resulting pain relief is not much better than taking one or other alone. Same goes for tramadol, another weak opioid. Strong opioids would probably not be required in many cases."

 

John paused in anticipation of being interrupted, but Sherlock quietly sipped his tea and signaled John to continue.

 

"Right." John hesitated, suspecting the detective might have tuned him out and was just letting him talk, like Sherlock often did with Mrs. Hudson. "It's possible to block individual nerves, but that would require the patient to go to an A&E or to be admitted to a ward to get that done. The effect lasts less than a day. Epidural pain blockade could also be an option in extreme cases, but that certainly requires hospitalization—Are you  _really_  listening to me?"

 

"Of course. What else?"

 

"Sherlock, you've cracked a rib or two in the past." John decided it was his turn to ask questions. "You don't remember any of your recovery protocols?"

 

"I've deleted them. All of this is redundant information as long as I have you. Remind me, John, what a person has to do during recovery besides masking the pain."

 

At Sherlock's urging, John acquiesced with details about ice-packs, hugging pillows to facilitate coughing, and establishing a walking routine. "The bottom line, Sherlock, is that the patient needs to fully inflate the lungs to keep them clear." John watched Sherlock scoop up a biscuit and start munching on it.

 

"How long does it take for a person to recover from fractured ribs?"

 

"To be completely healed, without pain, it normally takes about three to six weeks." John put his mug down. "Enough of this! What can you tell me about Keith Barnet?" John reached for a biscuit himself. "You said I would not recognize his name from our investigation, but that you have encountered his name before.  _When?_ "

 

"You remember that seventeen-year-old Met cold case up by Cambridge about that missing little girl, Heather? Her last name was Barnet…Keith was her  _first_ cousin."

 

"Brilliant! You've found the connection!" John grinned despite himself. "Seeking revenge for his missing cousin! That would make sense. Do you think Willard/ Prius had something to do with it after all?"

 

 

"According to the police reports, there had been insufficient evidence to link Prius with Heather's disappearance. The investigation to locate the missing girl, however, exposed Prius' private little practice of visiting recovering patients during off hours without his superior's knowledge. All his 'good works' ended abruptly when his attending learnt what he had been doing and forbade him from continuing. If the Barnet boy was involved somehow with any of this, well that connection was never made by the police. In fact, Keith Barnet had never been formally interviewed during the investigation of his missing cousin. The file indicated he had taken ill with complications from pneumonia and had been transported to hospital where he remained for over a month. He was eleven at the time. When he returned home from hospital and gave his statement to the police, they disregarded his information as unreliable and distorted by his unstable mental condition caused by ill health."

 

"Hmmm. Somewhere within the boy's nonsense, might there have been a kernel of truth, I wonder?" John thoughtfully studied his half-eaten biscuit before popping the rest in his mouth.

 

 

"At the time, the police did not think so. His statements were not included in the files. A year or so later, Prius was charged by a suspicious colleague with 'criminal, intimate examinations,' but nothing came of that either."

 

"And the missing cousin?" John reached for another biscuit, his appetite stimulated by the excitement of deduction.

 

"That is  _still_ a mystery." Sherlock straightened his posture in his chair as if that fact made him feel uneasy. "Whatever transpired over the seventeen years since, whether real or imagined, may have motivated Barnet to search for—or to practically stalk—Willard/Prius. It's likely that Barnet attempted and possibly made verbal or written contact multiple times, probably anonymously, compelling Willard/Prius to decide to drop out of sight. Barnet's name appeared in the guest roster at the Marriot as were all the guests attending the annual International Cancer Consortium in Guyana. In light of what we now know, it is highly probable it  _had_  been Barnet who disrupted the hotel room and left a threatening message for Willard/Prius. Judging by the pedophile's deliberate steps to go into hiding, I suspect Willard/Prius was evading more than the FBI when he disappeared these past two years."

 

"At the car accident," John's eyes widened, "Barnet  _caught_  him, well, caught Will Franks—the medical lab technician from the Institute of Cancer Research. Doesn't it seem strange that after all these years Willard/Prius/Franks would be working in the same hospital as the stalker he had been trying to avoid? Even if it were just for a few months, it might be difficult to avoid an accidental encounter, unless he did not recognize Barnet as a grown man?"

 

"Strange, yes. This singularity may be a clue." In one fluid motion, Sherlock put down his emptied mug, launched himself from his chair. and headed toward the window. With his hands clasped behind his back, he flexed his fingers as though to relieve his pent-up energy. "In absence of a body, John, what can we deduce about the fact that for seventeen days, Willard/Prius has not been picked up by CCTV anywhere?" John sensed Sherlock was utilizing his visual memory although he appeared to be staring down at Baker Street.

 

"Keith Barnet has been  _holding_ him captive all this time!" John leant back in his chair feeling satisfied with his answer.

 

"Holding him is one explanation, unless his stalker-turned-captor decided to complete his act of vengeance—"

 

"—and kill him outright? I would hope not…." John shook his head and shrugged as he reconsidered his own objection. "What am I saying? Barnet  _did_ try to blow him up with a bomb."

 

"Your first answer may not be entirely wrong." Sherlock offered John a sidelong glance and a tight smile before turning back toward the window and bowing his head in thought. "Using a bomb is  _not_  the most  _personal_  form of attempted murder. It is detached. It does not require actual contact. Calculated…yes, but in this case it was obviously poorly  _executed_ —

 

"—Y'know, you're punning, right?"

 

"Revenge is personal," Sherlock ignored John's quip, "especially when the reason is connected to a wronged loved one." Despite where he stood by the window, Sherlock's features seemed cast in shadow. "Even for the most noble of reasons, committing close-contact  _murder_  is traumatizing.  _'Out, damned spot! Out, I say!_ ' Although she states it with eloquence, Lady Macbeth identifies the shock of literally getting blood on one's hands. The emotional, psychological, and ethical consequences are indelible …." Sherlock's voice dropped off completely as they both felt the memory of Magnussen rise like a spectre, chilling the room.

 

It was a rare sight to see Sherlock thrown off kilter by profound emotions.

 

"You made a sacrifice to fulfill your vow— _'whatever it takes_ '…," John's hushed acknowledgement resonated in the heavy stillness between them. "Maybe it was  _too_  costly a sacrifice in the end…."

 

"A choice I would make again…."

 

It was spoken in the softest of whispers but John heard it as clearly as if it had been shouted. He looked toward his friend for confirmation, surprised by the depth of his own reaction to Sherlock's nearly inaudible admission.

 

But Sherlock did not meet his gaze.

 

Instead, after a deep breath of resignation, Sherlock lifted his head to peer out the window once more, clapped his hands together, and cleared his throat. "And that's not even taking into consideration the legal repercussions. However, Barnet placed the bomb's timer in plain view so the driver could both hear and see it…Perhaps murder was not necessarily on his mind. Perhaps he expected Willard/Prius to survive, with the need for some medical attention which, as a nurse, Barnet would be able to provide allowing him to proceed with the rest of his plan…"

 

"Which was what? Now I'm confused, Sherlock. Was Barnet trying to  _kill_  the guy or  _cure_ him?"

 

"All this time we've been making assumptions that Barnet had been stalking him for murderous revenge—possibly regarding his missing cousin—but maybe that was not Barnet's scheme. Perhaps Barnet  _planned_  to entrap his victim and keep him locked up so he could witness Willard/Prius' suffering on a more intimate level. Torture, not murder, was the desired revenge for his perceived wrong. Here is where your personal experiences with such emotions would be most helpful, John." Still standing by the window, Sherlock turned toward John.

 

"Why do you think I would know anything about torture and revenge?" John felt his throat tighten. He couldn't dismiss this as Sherlock's attempt at joking since the man did not joke.

 

"I know how cross you can get. I've been on the receiving end of your swift temper of late. And naturally, as your anger issues have magnified because of what's happened in the last five mon—" Sherlock trailed off, suddenly reluctant to continue. It wasn't often that he refrained from ploughing on with a statement that would reveal a secret or lead to someone becoming emotionally exposed, but he must have suddenly realized he was teetering on the edge of a dangerous precipice.

 

John's hand shook, forcing him to put his mug down. So Sherlock had known all along and said nothing—until he let it slip now—about John's  _obvious_  volatile anger problems. Once again, John was the fool to believe he had been able to conceal from prying eyes his raw emotions exposed by his personal anguish. But did the great detective also know  _why_ he was struggling to hold it all in, trying not to lash out at everyone, except his punchbag at home that so often took the brunt of his fury? The answer might have been too hard to hear. John had come to the sad conclusion that his greatest error had been to trust those he loved, especially his friend who betrayed this trust, not just once when Sherlock had "died" for two years whilst on a secret mission, but twice when the genius had failed to find the flaws in the investigation about the deaths of his wife and child.

 

John rose quickly from his chair; he assumed a boxer's stance as a bitter grin edged his lips. "Wait a  _bloody_ minute! Let me get this straight. Do you believe I am torturing  _you_ for revenge?" He seethed.

 

"No." Sherlock replied instantly and leveled his cool turquoise eyes on his friend, not in defiance, but in absolute faith. "You're not torturing me. You're torturing my friend—the best man I know—and he doesn't deserve it."

 

Undercut by Sherlock's declaration, John stood stunned.

 

"And whilst you may feel the need to exact vengeance for the harm done to those you loved—a perfectly understandable reaction I assure you—" Sherlock continued calmly, "I rather hope you will find some sense of justice in apprehending predators who have repeatedly betrayed the trusting nature of the innocent."

 

Whether Sherlock was using a special voice technique to dissipate John's volcanic emotions, John began to feel his fury quickly recede. He inhaled deeply, closed his eyes briefly and did his best to bring himself back under control. At last, he blinked away the residue of his temper and nodded in agreement. "Which is what we had aimed to accomplish when we accepted this case."

 

With his piercing eyes spotlighting John, Sherlock acknowledged John's commitment to the case with a gentle smile.

 

Forcing all thoughts of vengeance for Mary and Rosamund out of his head with an iron will he hadn't realized he had, John found adequate distraction in reviewing his basic knowledge of medical and psychological studies about the complex and varied spectrum of human emotions. When he frequently waited in Molly Hooper's office for Sherlock to finish any of his morgue experiments, John had often resorted to reading through her criminology textbooks. The memorable day Sherlock had been shooting a corpse with a staple gun, John had studied the different typologies of stalking behavior. He was surprised how much he could recall now.

 

"Although not all stalkers suffer from a mental illness, mental disorders are not uncommon among stalkers. Some studies have broken down the types of stalking into five categories:  _rejection, resentment, intimacy-seeking, incompetent suitor,_ and  _predatory,_  but it still all boils down to the kind of prior relationship—if any—the victim might have had with the stalker. Wait. You said Barnet left a message for Willard/Prius after disrupting his hotel room. What did the message say?"

 

"It was not in words. It was in images…of those popular cartoons..." Sherlock turned back to the window.

 

"Huh? What cartoons?"

 

"You know. Like  _our_ -eh- _the_  Smiley Face." He pointed awkwardly at the wall.

 

"So it  _was_  Smiley Face?"

 

"No. No. Not exactly."

 

"Then what  _exactly_  was it?"

 

"More like those annoying, insipid face thing-a-ma-bobs. Molly Hooper used to send such nonsense in her texts to me. Fortunately that was long ago."

 

"An emoji! This could be important! What kind of emoji?"

 

"What do you mean,  _kind_? You're not saying those pointless things have some sort of taxonomy?"

 

"Yes, Sherlock! They express emotions. What was the face or hand doing to convey emotion?"

 

"It was a face and a few other things," Sherlock replied, brows knitted together. "Must've deleted the rest."

 

"Sherlock!" John growled with impatience.

 

Sherlock strode to his desk and rummaged through some papers that looked familiar. John realized they had been part of the Information Wall that the detective had taken down when John had become a temporary resident.

 

"Here!" Sherlock handed John an official police photo, a close-up of the glyphs.

 

John studied them quietly before asking. "You are certain this was something that Willard/Prius did not have before?"

 

"It was deliberately pinned to his pillow. How could this not be threatening?" Sherlock set his face to neutral as he itemized the pictograph. "Pills spilling from a bottle…a double bed… a face with pursed lip—they bear an uncanny resemblance to the facial expression you've used on occasions when you are displeased with me—and a pair of handcuffs."

 

John furrowed his brow. "Hmmm. I see how this can be interpreted as a  _threat,_  but I think it is more an inducement….an enticement. These are not regular emojis. They are  _Flirtmoji_."

 

"They are  _what?_  How can you tell the difference?"

 

"The Flirtmoji specifically have sexual connotations, contain bright red elements—the color of love—and convey delight… some are associated with gay culture such as rainbow flags. The message is supposed to be interpreted in the context of these particular images. The face with the 'pursed lips,' as you call it, depicts kissing, the bed is obvious, the pills may in this case mean care-giving or a sexual enhancement drug for greater pleasure—"

 

"—And the handcuffs?" Incredulity flittered across Sherlock's face as if this particular train of thought John was riding  _had_ never occurred to him.

 

"Sometimes," John grinned awkwardly as he raked his tongue across the back of his teeth and chuckled, "bondage is considered  _entertaining_."

 

Sherlock blinked twice before countering, "I do not want to know how you attained your proficiency in these  _Flirtmoji."_ He pronounced the name with visible disgust. "Although this theory of yours does have some interesting  _ties_  to our case …" Sherlock conceded upon hearing his own words, "I'll admit that one was an unintentional pun." Cupping his elbow in the palm of his hand, Sherlock pulled at his lip with his fingers whilst a scowl knitted his brows.

 

"Clearly, Sherlock, this message from Barnet feels—at least to me—more like a proposition than a threat." John began to pace in a small circle. "It's likely that Willard/Prius would have rejected it if he knew the sender, since he prefers prepubescent boys. And if Willard/Prius felt someone was tracking him down after all these years it could pose a risk for him getting caught for past transgressions." John flexed his fingers as he spoke; the excitement in his voice rose. "If this had been a clear-cut death threat then fine, but I think the message raises the question of what exactly Barnet wants from this guy. What if Barnet was victimized by this pedophile years ago, but rather than being shamed by it like many of the other victims had been, he may have  _misinterpreted_  it as genuine love?"

 

Whilst John was talking, Sherlock appeared impassive, but that still expression did not mean he wasn't listening. John knew he had the detective's ear and attention. "Think about the timing, Sherlock. Barnet was so ill, he was hospitalized around the time his cousin went missing. And when whatever Prius was doing with those kids had ended, Barnet may never have received the proper therapy and counselling to realize what had actually happened to him. Maybe the doctors and his caregivers never realized the abuse. Even if they did, many victims try to protect their abusers, especially if they know the person before the abuse began."

 

John stopped pacing suddenly and folded his arms across his chest as he reached his conclusion. "Barnet could have carried on under the assumption of first love well into adulthood, and if he later on identified as a homosexual, it could seem logical from his viewpoint to have the misconception that they were in a two-sided relationship until Prius cast him cruelly aside."

 

Looking eagerly toward his friend, John expected affirmation; he was disappointed by the frown on Sherlock's face.

 

"A nice bit of fiction, John, but just like your blogs, you have mired the truth in fanciful elaboration," Sherlock scoffed. "What you've just spouted out is emotional conjecture. We need to stick to the facts. Putting your ridiculous predilections for sexual innuendo aside, the most obvious interpretation would be that it's a hostile threat. Clearly Barnet plans to hold Willard/Prius against his will with the aid of sedatives to keep him from escaping."

 

"How do you explain the kissing face? And why would he announce his threatening intentions to kidnap him beforehand?""

 

"To intimidate." Sherlock answered the last question first and then paused before his next reply. "A kissing face is supposed to have a pink heart attached to the lips, right? This one does not. This is a grimace—"

 

"You can't look at them individually—" John stopped himself, acutely aware that Sherlock had difficulty responding to emotions on human faces. Maybe it wasn't so surprising that the simple combination of graphic designs depicting emotions would give him trouble as well. No wonder he disliked receiving them.

 

Admittedly, John understood he was intuiting the meaning from the combination of the symbols about particularly conflicted human emotions. This would be challenging enough for a trained psychotherapist which neither of them were.

 

"What if both interpretations are correct?" John still felt he needed to press for a compromise. "Now that he is a man in his late twenties, Barnet is no longer a child seeking approval, but an adult seeking revenge for abandonment. That's why he's behaving like a rejected stalker instead of a cold-blooded killer—part of him may want to harm Prius, part of him to reconcile with him. If no one ever taught him that what was done to him was all wrong, and that none of it was his fault even if he didn't fight back, then he might still be willing to give Prius a chance to fix things." John scratched his head. "If science is what you want, then I think there is some overlap with the recognized criminological stalker types of intimacy-seeking and incompetent-suitor, judging by what I've read."

 

"I am willing to accept that complex motivations might be present, but the only thing we know for certain. John, is that Barnet has become the pursuer of his former abuser. Whether he wants to force a confession about his missing cousin remains to be seen. I agree that your theory  _could_  explain why Barnet gave Prius a chance to save himself from the bomb. It might also explain why Barnet chose to kidnap him in lieu of murdering him outright."

 

"Didn't you say they walked away from the car explosion scene together? Maybe they had become acquainted, if not reacquainted, whilst they worked at the Royal Marsden? This fits the behavior models. The victims are usually former sexual partners!"

 

 

"However, all this is mere conjecture, including Barnet's plans for his captive. We need first-hand evidence, and logic will help us get it."

 

"How?"

 

"I have located their whereabouts. While searching through my Mind Palace, I narrowed down the potential bolt holes within proximity of the accident scene to which an injured person—with assistance—might hobble, as well as areas where the CCTV cameras had been turned off near Royal Marsden Hospital around that time.

 

"Great! Where is it?"

 

"I'll show you." He handed John his jacket and plucked his own off the peg.

 

"Calling Lestrade, are we…?" John checked his phone.

 

"Put that away. In good time."

 

"Sherlock! Too many times you've failed to call the police…." John reluctantly pocketed his mobile and followed the detective down the stairs.

 

"And we're still alive!" Sherlock turned his head and flashed John a grin.

 

"Our luck could change…" John grumbled.

 

"Luck has little to do with it. We are armed with astute logical reasoning, and frequently with your gun." Sherlock swung wide the door opening onto Baker Street. "Intelligence affords us the greatest protection."

 

"In a game of chess, if the other player decides to shoot you, logic wouldn't help much." John shielded his eyes until they adjusted to the midday brightness. "Might I remind you of the unpredictability of human nature?"

 

"You  _are_  so disagreeable, John."

 

"No, I'm not!" John said and closed the large door behind him.

 

88**88

 

According to Sherlock, "the main purpose of a bolt hole is to evade detection and stay off CCTV cameras." This was a  _simplified_  explanation, of course. There were other uses for such locations that John would not condone, thus Sherlock felt those purposes were best left unmentioned. Where the detective's best bolt holes might be, in addition to the eight John already knew, Sherlock would not reveal, no matter how many attempts John made to find out during their taxi ride. After a while, John gave up and studied the traffic, feeling mildly irritated, whilst Sherlock played on his phone.

 

_Hmmm. A trusted friend who does not trust his friend enough to share even that…_

 

Sherlock  _was_  willing to admit that the vicinity surrounding the Royal Marsden was not high on his list of preferred bolt holes; it was not a quirky enough location for his taste, and there were plenty of CCTV cameras, which was why he had expected to make quick work at locating the hiding place of an injured man and his caregiver.

 

Before they had reached their destination, however, Nurse Hardings rang John back. "Keith Barnet will be on duty until 3 p.m. today. He's assigned to the Wilton Ward. My friend Sarah is the Ward Sister and admits none of them know him very well because he is fairly new to the RM. They're thinking he joined them about two months ago."

 

"What kind of patients do they see on the Wilton Ward?" John noticed the traffic in Fulham had slowed as they approached the entrance of the Royal Marsden.

 

"They care for patients undergoing diagnostics, surgery, chemotherapy and radiotherapy for a variety of cancers." Hardings' voice carried loud enough that Sherlock was able to listen without requiring John to put her on speaker. "As a new placement Keith is among the student nurses and post-registration nurses working with the mentors from the permanent staff. He's good at his job, kind, and diligent, they say, although a bit shy with his colleagues. One nurse claims he sets off alarms on her  _gay-dar._  She says it's a shame because she thinks he's a decent-looking bloke."

 

Once John had thanked Hardings and rung off, Sherlock commented. "We have several hours before he gets off shift. That should be sufficient time to do a bit of surveillance. Ah!" Sherlock rapped on the window behind the driver. "Stop here."

 

The taxi discharged Sherlock and John at the corner of Foulis Terris and Onslow Gardens, across from orange barricades blocking off an entire row of white stucco-fronted Grade II listed period buildings. The buildings were sheathed in blue tarp and metal scaffolding, and obviously undergoing extensive and expensive renovations. Although the structures were concealed in this fashion from the rooftop to the ground, behind the construction frameworks the buildings themselves appeared intact and finished. It looked as though the crews merely needed to dismantle the scaffolds.

 

"Here we have an example, John, of an official work-order halt." Sherlock announced.

 

"Halt? Why? It looks complete."

 

"It is. Except, due to a depleted workforce, all final work has been held up for several months now. The industry had been heavily reliant on construction workers from Eastern Europe and the rest of the EU— the number of these skilled workers has been greatly reduced now with changes in the construction industry and the impact of Brexit. There are not enough trained tradespeople to complete the finishing touches of the project, so there can be no final inspections Without these inspections, the paperwork filed with the Regulatory and Fire authorities for approval is significantly delayed. In turn, pending approval, the construction company cannot file for occupancy. How frustrating it must be to be so close to unveiling these multimillion pound residences and not have the manpower that allows for the doors to open."

 

"Sherlock, how do you know all this?" John stared at the blue-sheathed building, his mouth opened in astonishment.

 

"It is my business to know what changes and what stays the same in London." The detective had replied with dramatic gravitas, switching instantly to humor when he added. "Also, it affords me valuable information when locating bolt holes."

 

"All those times I saw you obsessing over the real estate adverts," John snorted a laugh. "Here I thought you were considering finding a better flat."

 

"Leave Baker Street? Me? Never! At least not until the Work is done." Sherlock smiled as he inspected the renovation site in the prime real estate location in Onslow. "So despite these premises looking vacant, I am certain one of these four flats is currently occupied." A soft powder of plaster flurried gently down onto Sherlock's curls and coat as he parted the blue curtain and ducked behind the tarp.

 

"So this is a bolt hole for the beginner." John remarked to himself and followed his partner beneath the blue tarp. Within, everything appeared blue especially Sherlock's pale complexion.

 

Briefly the detective stood to survey the four separate entry doors and pointed to the farthest door in the last unit. "Look here, John. See the footprints in the dust. Entry had been gained recently but only by one person. The man has a size 10.5 foot, the soles of which are the kind found on regulation uniform shoes. There is one other set of footprints, which looks much older but still fresher than the other prints you see all about made by work crews in boots."

 

John leaned against the window and blocked out the blue daylight with cupped hands. "Sherlock, I see lights coming from within."

 

"It is not uncommon for some electric and water hook-ups to be turned on with limited service to ensure they are functional. But see here," Sherlock waved John over. "There are obvious signs of someone tampering with the lock." Sherlock pulled out his pocket case and removed a fine needle-like lock pick. "Time for the grand reveal."

 

John licked his lips and nodded as Sherlock effortlessly tripped the lock and opened the front door. They heard no alarms.

 

After John followed Sherlock into the renovated flat, he was hardly surprised by its spaciousness. Everything was cast in the strange blue light from the tarp over the windows; the floors were still covered with large sheets of cardboard to protect them from scratches during construction. John expected that once the scaffolding came down, the reception room—which would have a nice view of the gated communal gardens to the front—would look rather lovely. A tiled bathroom opened off to one side and a fully fitted kitchen separated the reception room from the rear where the bedrooms were located. One door was opened showing access to the south facing terrace—also covered with tarps— but the other door was closed. A worn soft chair with frayed fabric piping had been strategically placed outside the closed door and beside it on the floor was a torchlight. Roles of gaffer tape, some nearly empty, lay strewn about and takeaway wrappers from popular eateries could be seen crumpled and piled in a corner. Groceries bags from Tesco contained nonperishables like breakfast cereals, water bottles, and crisps. John kicked over several large clear plastic bags to read the label— _Ice._  They had long been emptied and were quite dry.

 

Sherlock had gone directly to the closed door. John watched him have a sniff in front of it. Of course Sherlock would be checking for distinct odors to indicate whether there might be a living or decaying body behind that door. Before John could ask Sherlock what he had smelled, the detective had picked the lock and the door swung open.

 

From within, a man wielding a heavy rod lunged at Sherlock. Their shouts were nearly indistinguishable in the quick conflict. Instinctively Sherlock blocked the assault with a martial arts maneuver, knocking the weapon to the ground. The thud of bodies colliding sent Sherlock backwards over the soft chair behind him as the man dashed toward John.

 

8888***8888


	16. Six minutes

**Gift of Silence**

**ooOOOoo**

**ooOOOoo**

 

" _Sssherrrr—"_

 

Split-second reflexes, honed by military training, launched John at Sherlock's assailant. Tactically felling the rushing man and pressing his face into the cardboard-covered floor, John anchored him with a knee to his back whilst twisting one arm securely behind by the elbow. Upon hearing the man scream in agony, John eased the pressure of his knee without loosening his powerful grip.

 

_"—LOCK!"_

 

 _"FINE!"_  Swiftly Sherlock pulled himself to his feet from behind the soft armchair and looked about, noting the offending weapon—a wooden chair leg—had fallen to the floor.

 

Through the opened door, both Sherlock and John could see into the dim, stale-smelling bedroom where the hostage had been kept for weeks. A mattress lay on the floor, crumpled sheets were strewn across it, food wrappers and emptied beverage containers littered the floor, and a rickety, wooden chair, missing a leg, lay collapsed on its side near the mattress.

 

"You hurt?" John hissed through gritted teeth as Sherlock fixed his rumpled coat, located his phone, tucked it into his pocket, and finally sauntered over. John's hollering captive continued to wriggle and resist, forcing the soldier to maintain his restraint.

 

"Fine. A conspiracy of chairs couldn't possibly take me down…."

 

"But  _somebody_  hiding behind the door could," John snapped. The struggling man, loudly howling obscenities, began to show signs of fatigue. "Don't tell me you didn't see  _that_ coming."

 

"I won't. I think it was perfectly obvious." Sherlock rubbed his shoulder.

 

Moans and whimpers of mild distress replaced the yelling for a moment.

 

" _That_ was not room-entry protocol." John threw an angry scowl at his partner as his captive made another determined but unsuccessful attempt to get free. "What the  _bloody hell_ were you expecting?"

 

"A heavily sedated man incapacitated by flunitrazepam."

 

"Guess you were  _wrong_." If John hadn't been preoccupied with securing the assailant, he would have relished saying that with more emphasis.

 

"Not completely," Sherlock stated stiffly. "I knew you had my back."

 

"A warning of some kind would have been nice." Although he could feel his captive's energy reserves dwindling, John sensed Sherlock was nowhere close to giving up on his lame defense.

 

"Not necessary. Your superb instincts proved otherwise."

 

Wise to the detective's diversionary tactic of showering compliments to draw attention away from his own shortcomings, John gave Sherlock his least-appeased face, taking comfort in knowing he had at least one loose cannon under his control.

 

"You gotta help me! Please." The detainee pleaded, his voice muffled by the cardboard. "Get me out of here. I've been a prisoner, drugged for days. That guy's a nut case. He tricked me! I believed he'd help me, 'Cept, I don't know what he wants. I don't even know why I am here. What day is it?"

 

Eyes meeting in agreement, Sherlock nodded to John.

 

"Shut up, you." John spoke with his distinct voice of authority. "I'm going to let you up, but no funny business, y'hear? Or I'll knock you right down again in a blink and I might break something  _this_ time."

 

"Let me assure, he can." Sherlock warned darkly. "Best do as he says."

 

John carefully loosened his hold and stepped away.

 

The prostrate man turned onto his side with a soft moan and rested temporarily on his elbows. Slowly pushing himself up to a sitting position and turning his head, the disheveled balding man with a scruffy beard peered at them with light brown eyes. He was dressed in filthy scrubs, and his feet were bare. His wrists and ankles were encircled in Gaffer tape as if they had been bound together at one time, but the most distinctive feature of this otherwise nondescript, pathetic man was what John had earlier described as  _aponeurotic ptosis_  of his left eye. Before them sat the Cambridge doctor Francis Prius Willard, the American oncologist Willard Francis Prius, and in his current identity, Will Franks, the medical lab technician from the Institute of Cancer Research.

 

All John saw was embodiment of all evil in the reviled pedophile.

 

In a flash-over of white hot rage John drew in a deep breath but was startled by Sherlock's restraining hand gripping his arm firmly. Communicating through touch, Sherlock seized John's reaction and urged him to maintain control. Again their eyes clicked in agreement. As John exhaled, Sherlock gave his arm a reassuring squeeze before releasing it.

 

"Your problems are about to get worse,  _Will."_ Standing before the prisoner like a Grand Inquisitor, Sherlock's baritone deepened with ominous intensity. "You have only  _six_  minutes to tell us what we want to know."

 

 _Six minutes?_  Surprised by the peculiar time constraint, John was more puzzled to hear the sudden transformation in his friend's voice, which he assumed was deliberately aimed to instill fear in their suspect. A glance toward the detective was even more unsettling. Sherlock's normal mask of aloofness had become in that moment decidedly fiendish-looking.

 

"What have you done with Heather Barnet's body?" Sherlock somehow seemed larger and more powerful in his greatcoat. And if John hadn't known better, he would have thought Sherlock's voice had arisen from the gates of hell. Hearing it gave him shivers.

 

"No! Wait!" Will's face became distorted by fright and bewilderment at Sherlock's question. Clumsily he attempted to scramble to his feet, but John's threatening lunge toward him made the desperate man recoil and flop back to the floor. A grimace of pain appeared on his face. "Not that! You too? Why are you asking me  _that_?"

 

John wondered the same thing. Sherlock's question had completely ignored the more pressing information about Will's captivity and how his abductor had detained him.

 

The sniveling man groaned where he sat, raising his shaky hand defensively to shield his face as if expecting to be struck. "The police cleared me, nearly twenty years ago—"

 

"The police didn't  _clear_  you. They simply hadn't found evidence to  _accuse_  you. Let me assure you: we are well above their competence level!" Sherlock menaced. "We  _know_  the truth. And you've just wasted twenty-three of your allocated seconds."

 

John assumed Sherlock was bluffing about knowing the truth, but he knew how aggravatingly accurate the detective was about timing.

 

"Then you know I had nothing to do with  _that_  girl!" With beseeching eyes, Will faced Sherlock's withering scrutiny long enough it seemed for the detective to filter the facts from the fiction.

 

"Wrong!" Sherlock snapped, his narrowed stare seemed focused like a laser beam that bore through the distressed man's veneer. "I know when you're lying, Will. You were there when it happened. Tell me now, or things will get more unpleasant," Sherlock tilted his head suggestively toward John who needed no prompting to display his murderous smile.

 

"I saw her only once."

 

"Where was that?"

 

"In the wooded recreational area near the old quarry pits in Harlton."

 

"What were you doing there?

 

"Making …a house call…on a…um…a private patient…after work."

 

John hitched a breath and clenched his fists looking ready to strike the man down.

 

Seeing John's reaction, Will flinched but Sherlock merely took a few steps, purposely planting himself between the two men.

 

"House call? After hours? Explain."

 

"It's complicated. It started several months before when I had visited the home of another patient—a neighborhood boy diagnosed with acute leukemia who had been sent home for the recovery phase. He had received his latest course of treatment in the hospital where I had worked as a second year…"

 

 _"You fucking maggot!"_  John gasped with rage and took a threatening step forward. The man cowered in dread, but Sherlock pressed a firm hand against John's chest—as if anyone could calm his racing heart—and blocked his friend from getting closer.

 

"Keep him away from me." Will edged sideways like a crab.

 

"That might be difficult. I can only hold him off for so long." Sherlock glowered at Will. "Four minutes, forty-seven seconds left. Speak fast in plain truths. You were visiting a sick boy. How did you meet Keith Barnet and his cousin Heather?"

 

"The sick boy was Timmy M-something, can't remember now, but he was actually that Barnet kid's best friend," Will continued nervously trying to speed up his pace. "Timmy had been discharged from the hospital the week before but was not responding well to his chemo regime. In fact, he seemed to be succumbing to his treatment more than the disease. The parents  _welcomed_ my visit to see their son. They had seen enough sorrow in their lives. A stillborn daughter, and then so many years later, a son dying from an aggressive cancer; that family was on the verge of losing everything yet again—"

 

"—Stick with the facts!" Sherlock lashed sharply. "We are not interested in irrelevant tangents!"

 

Will cringed, coughed briefly and moaned, before resuming. "Well, this other kid—grown up now as this Barnet bloke who's kidnapped me, kept me for days in a drugged stupor, and held me here against my will—now that's criminal!" Will pointed toward the bedroom of the flat. "It's positively the same person. He told me so, as if I should have recognized him and remembered after all these years. Barnet's been reminding me of stuff that happened so long ago, and yeah some of it's coming back to me on its own…. "

 

"Irrelevant, Will!" Sherlock barked.

 

Taking a deep breath, which made him wince, Will spoke quickly. "Okay. When this Barnet guy was a kid— Timmy's best friend—he was always hanging around, terribly concerned that his friend was dying. Kids can sometimes see things more clearly than adults. A few days later, I went back to check on the sick boy, but Timmy wasn't there. His mate was, though, and very upset about what was happening. It seemed Timmy had been transferred to a hospital in London. The parents were in London too. The two boys had been such close buddies it was natural to find the other one in Timmy's room looking for comfort. How distraught that kid was with the prospect of losing his friend! Touching really. He pleaded with me to help. I promised I would look into it. I also suggested I could help him with some 'relaxation massages' to calm him, but he refused and then burst into tears. I hugged him briefly—that was all"—Will raised his right palm up like he was testifying to the truth whilst his eyes darting between Sherlock and John, "and told him I would check back on how he was doing soon."

 

"You keep referring to him as if he didn't have a name!" John interrupted with a low growl. Sickened by the account, John understood how the young Keith Barnet's fears and affections would have become entangled and twisted by the preying pedophile. "Do you even know the identities of most of your victims?"

 

Stammering and perplexed, Will avoided answering John's question and continued his narrative more rapidly. "The next time I visited on my day off, I found the kid—yeah, okay, Keith—grieving, forlorn, sitting on the doorstep of his dead friend's home, with his head in his hands. The kid, um, Keith, was beside himself. Timmy's house was a painful reminder of what he had lost, but he didn't know where else to go. I suggested we take a walk to talk about it, that he needed a private place to grieve, and he accepted. We spent several hours that day, wandering deep into the woods talking, sitting in a quiet spot, and sharing until he felt better. After that, we agreed to keep meeting so I could console him. Eventually, when we went to the woods and found our quiet spot, he allowed me to give him the massages. He  _let_  me help him—it made him feel better…"

 

"You  _FUC_ -king  _a-bom-i-na-tion!_ —" Dodging around Sherlock in a blind fury, John hurled himself at the monster who exploited the helpless at their most vulnerable moments, tightening his hands around the man's throat.

 

Sherlock's strong arms pulled his frenzied friend off the terrified man. Clamping John in a tight hold that pinned his elbows behind, Sherlock prevented his friend from doing more harm. Gentling him with a soft whisper close to his ear, Sherlock shushed, "Okay, now…breathe, John, breathe."

 

Will sputtered, coughed, and massaged his neck.

 

The sight helped John's temper ebb and his vision clear. "It's  _not_  okay." He hissed back. Pulling himself free from the detective's arms, John cast an angry look at Sherlock. Being forced to listen to the pedophile's unspeakable acts disturbed him. It was torture. John repeated through gritted teeth, " _Not_ okay."

 

Observing John's raw pain, Sherlock's eyes darkened. "Wait outside, John," he said softly. "I can handle this…"

 

With his fists clenching and shoulders coiled like a boxer ready to strike, John shook his head as he focused on Will. "Fuck it if I'm leaving you alone with that  _thing_ ," despite clearing his throat, his voice was gruff with strained emotion. "I'll see this through…." When he met Sherlock's gaze expecting to see disappointment, he was astonished to find something else reflecting back at him— _compassion_?

 

The prospect of such rare validation from Sherlock took his breath away, and he became calm enough to reply. "Next time, I'll remove myself so you don't have to stop me from killing the bastard."

 

"You think there will be a next time?"

 

"Probably."

 

With respect for John's candor, Sherlock acknowledged his friend's response. "I'll hold you to your word, then. Murder would cause extremely undesirable complications...Besides, it would grieve me to have to defend you in a court of law, as my reputation for being an unsavory person would only tarnish your sterling character." Sherlock replied with a slightly quirked-up lip before resuming a more serious expression. "Please, John, consider these consequences before you act in anger."

 

Turning at once toward the self-confessed pedophile, Sherlock's voice became as severe as his visage. "You're nearly out of time," Sherlock warned, "Two minutes and four seconds. If we don't get what we came here for, we'll put you back where we found you and leave you to  _his_  ministrations. Keep in mind, Barnet will be off shift soon. If you want your freedom, get to the point."

 

Quaking with this threat of prolonged captivity, Will wheezed and pointed to John. "You k-k-keep away…" Holding his bruised ribcage, he grimaced once more and sighed with fatigue and confusion. "What is it you want to know, again…?"

 

" _Heather_ Barnet!" Sherlock shouted threateningly. "You're running out of time, Will! _"_

 

"Yes. Yes." Will quailed. "We were in the woods. We had just got to our private spot. I had removed the kid's jacket and felt his torso. He was hot to the touch like he was running a fever. I thought that explained why he seemed a bit out of his head, needier than usual, and his eyes were glassy. I had decided we should cancel our session despite his begging, when this skinny girl showed up. She squealed in disgust about him being half naked, and said she'd tell. Barnet reacted, embarrassed at first, then scared. I didn't know who she was… She was petite, young looking, all of eight years old in my reckoning. Turns out, she was his twelve-year-old cousin who also lived nearby in Harlton, but I had never seen her before. No one knew she had entered the woods and followed us to our special place."

 

Although John was certain Sherlock knew his six minutes had just elapsed, the detective was not about to interrupt Will's revelations at this crucial juncture.

 

"The kid—er, Barnet, Keith, whatever—chased her off. He came back coughing and upset that his cousin had seen us and felt he needed to go home. He was shaking anyway, with nerves or chills, it was hard to say. Truth to tell, I was relieved. I had had enough. His emotional dependence was a real problem and meeting him often was becoming a bother. Also, I had expected to hear about a transfer from the hospital any day. So when we left, I knew I wouldn't be coming back. Funny though, as we walked out, we could still hear that batshit crazy cousin wailing like a banshee through the woods. After a short time the noise cut out. We didn't hear her again. I figured she found her way. It made me more determined to leave Harlton behind." Will drew in one deep breath to finish. "Later when she was reported missing, I admit I was relieved. She wouldn't be starting any rumors to make me look bad. I figured she was unfamiliar with those woods. She could have taken a wrong turn—."

 

"—toward the old quarry pits." Sherlock kept his face impassive but John notice a twitch at the corner of his mouth, as if the detective made a connection no one else had considered. "—You never reported this encounter to the police?"

 

"Tell the police?" Wills' right eye widened skeptically, whilst the lid of the left squinted shut. "Of course not! I had nothing to do with her! I was not going to get involved in something that did not concern me. It's the boy's fault they didn't find her. Apparently, they never searched those woods because no one ever suspected she had gone there. The cousin is as much to blame for whatever happened to her for not saying anything about where we saw her last. Now, after all this time, he grabs  _me_  and holds  _me_  responsible, takes  _me_  hostage, asking  _me_  what happened to his cousin like he has no memory of her  _annoying_  screams in the woods. How the hell should I know?"

 

"Bloody Christ! You were the adult!" John yelled, his fists raised, although he refrained from lunging at the man. "You were the one who should have known better. Barnet is right to put you on the spot!"

 

"Time's up!" After clapping his hands, the detective swiftly maneuvered behind Will, hooked him under the arms, and dragged him toward the back room. "Back you go!"

 

"What? Wait! No…no…no…." Shock paled Will's face as he raised a hand of protest, struggling ineffectively against Sherlock's iron grip. "You said you'd help me out," he whimpered.

 

"I lied." There was a tinge of evil amusement in Sherlock's voice as he pulled the man across the floor.

 

"No! Wait. Th-there's more!"

 

"Not interested." The detective replied as he continued heaving the flailing man closer to the threshold of his former prison.

 

"Help me. Please." He begged. "I'll tell the police what I know about the cousin…"

 

Immediately, Sherlock released him. Will dropped to the floor and crawled a short distance away from the backroom-prison. Lying onto his side, he curled into ball.

 

"And I shall be  _glad_  to help you now." Sherlock studied the cowardly man with genuine disgust on his face. "I am sure the police will be happy to repay you with a permanent residence that promises all the amenities. At least, it will be an improvement over this flop house _._ "

 

With the outlook of his freedom slipping way, Will became unhinged, speaking at his most accelerated pace. "Please, you've got to believe me. This Barnet guy has been following me for years. He told me he went into the medical field so he could get close to me. Two months ago, when I got my temporary assignment at the RM, our paths crossed. He knew who I was, but I didn't recognize him. Here I'm thinking, he's a friendly, helpful guy, who could be useful now that I was getting reestablished in the UK. Had no clue he was the nutter I had been trying to avoid for two years!"

 

In his desperation, Will looked toward John to continue his plea, but John looked away unmoved. "He nearly killed me with that homemade bomb of his. I should never have confided in him about getting the car and heading to my new assignment. When I escaped the bomb, he offered to help me. Next thing I know, I'm here, leashed and tethered like an animal."

 

Will's voice broke with sobs, his nose and eyes running with tears, and he struggled to explain. "He drugged my food to keep me lethargic and quiet—I stopped eating yesterday so the side effects would finally wear off. He spent hours talking to me,  _touching_  me, forcing me to walk so I wouldn't get pneumonia—he said he nearly died from it when he was a kid—but then he strapped me down again to keep me from leaving because he was hurt and angry that I had left him behind and just disappeared. Now, he acts like he wants to both take care of me and murder me… but I think he really plans to kill me when he's done. You  _gotta_  help me. Please. You've got to get me out of here!" Exhausted and weeping uncontrollably, Will had dissolved in a heap on the floor, a pitiful mess of mental instability, quivering with despair at Sherlock and John's feet.

 

Try as he might, John could find no sympathy in his heart for the sniveling man who had shattered so many lives and for whom such a comeuppance was long overdue. Compelled to do the right thing, however, John reached for his mobile to call for assistance from the police and paramedics. Instead, his ears perked to a familiar noise that eclipsed the hideous wails of Will's anguish and self-pity. "Are those sirens, I hear?"

 

"Ambulance: it's responding to the alert regarding an  _unresponsive man_  at a construction site." Sherlock's amused grin was unmistakable. "Not at their best today. They are two minutes late."

 

"What unresponsive man?" John threw his friend a suspicious look as he met the paramedics and two police constables at the front of the flat to wave them in and under the blue tarp. After pointing out the disoriented patient sluggishly writhing on the floor, John shared what he knew of Will's general health condition, including the fractured rib. The constables had made a direct line to Sherlock, questioning him, doing a preliminary search of the mattress and debris in the back room, and called in a report.

 

"When did you make the call?" John stood beside Sherlock to observe both the emergency workers attending to Will and the police receiving instructions on the radio.

 

"I told you I was expecting a heavily sedated man. Auto-dialing to request an ambulance to this location required I simply press one key once we confirmed my suspicion. As our victim was not unconscious—although his current condition requires some medical attention—I hit that key anyway after my little altercation with the chair," Sherlock remarked around a lopsided smile. "I anticipated we only had eight minutes. It was a bit of a challenge I admit. I gave him six minutes, with a minute extra, to tell the whole story before they arrived."

 

"Auto dial? So  _that's_  why you picked six!" John rolled his eyes. "Huh. You called the ambulance, but you didn't call the police…."

 

"Didn't have to, John. A constable or two usually accompanies an ambulance call, especially at an abandoned premises where there is a greater likelihood of a violent crime. Besides, you spoke to Lestrade earlier about Barnet. By now the DI's done the requisite background check on Keith Barnet, and picked the nurse up for questioning. When you were talking to Nurse Hardings in the taxi, I texted Lestrade to let him know the exact ward and alerted him that the hostage would be arriving at St. Mary's by ambulance. Even gave him the approximate time. In fact, there's a Met unit with a long list of charges waiting for this fugitive from the law when he arrives in the A&E…"

 

"The same A&E that treated me after the car explosion …."John whispered softly. The trolley had been rolled in and John watched Will passively submit to the constables' questions and the paramedics' instructions as they loaded him.

 

"The very same," Sherlock acknowledged.

 

A somber mood had descended over the two men where they stood side-by-side waiting for the responders to accomplish their tasks. Neither spoke for the duration. Rather, both tracked the trolley with their eyes as the paramedics parted the blue tarp and wheeled their charge, strapped in tight, to the ambulance parked on the street. The constables stood at the door awaiting the detectives coming to the scene. Both John and Sherlock lingered, listening to the quiet that had settled in the uninhabited flat as if expecting to hear something more.

 

Something more came when John broke the silence in a private whisper. "You'd think, Sherlock," John stared at the blue tarp. "Given my own recent A&E experience, I would feel a little bit sorry for him… we found a man here who had been traumatized by his captivity and instead of offering him assurances, we interrogated him—I wanted to beat him to a pulp and only thanks to you, that did not happen. The truth is I feel absolutely no compassion for this… this…this bloody child molester with so many names …."

 

Sherlock offered his friend a sidelong glance but settled his gaze on the same blue tarp John was studying. "It does not matter what name he goes by, John. There should be no compassion for those who deliberately abuse their authority over defenseless children…." Sherlock's eyes grew distant, and his voice became low and detached. "His kind has always plagued the vulnerable. He finds them sick and frightened in a hospital bed, or isolated by social ineptitude, or troubled and confused under the influence of drugs or alcohol or both, and he takes their innocence because they do not understand what he is doing or know this is wrong... until too late." Sherlock gave his head a little shake, as if to dismiss an unwanted memory. With recovered voice and focused eyes, he continued speaking. "And whilst we may have treated this Willard/Prius/Franks person rather unkindly for his offences, we never came close to the kind of ignominy and despair he has caused as a pedophile. Our vileness pales in comparison to what the relatives of victims would do to him if they could. Rather, I commend you, John, for successfully apprehending such a predator. You must take consolation in at least that."

 

Nodding in agreement, John traded an awkward grin of appreciation with his friend before dispelling the serious mood with a question. "Why did you ask Will about Heather, instead of how he got abducted?"

 

Sherlock perked with John's question. "The missing girl was the only part of this case that was still in question. We knew enough about Barnet and Willard/Prius/Franks. Once the Yarders had them both in custody, more answers would be forthcoming." He paused with a slight smile pulling at his lips. "I was mostly curious about Heather's disappearance and saw an opportunity when our suspect surprised me by being conscious. I decided to turn the tables by surprising him with this unexpected line of questioning. It was a diversionary tactic at best. But notice, by catching him off guard with those questions, he divulged what actually did happen to him without my asking."

 

"Do you believe what he said?" John asked softly. "That he didn't have anything to do Heather's disappearance?"

 

"He did, even if just by omission. The Keith boy had been too ill with pneumonia to be of help, and as you pointed out, he was a child whereas Willard should have understood he couldn't leave it on the boy's conscience. Had Willard alerted the authorities, they might have found her in time. Only an autopsy will show how and when she died."

 

"You can't do an autopsy without a body."

 

"A body will be found, if I have deduced correctly. Willard/Prius/Franks had nothing to do with her disappearance directly. I fear it was an accident. From what he described, I suspect she ran deeper into the abandoned quarry and may have met her demise in a remote pit, hidden, where her bones may still be found today."

 

"Quarry pits?"

 

"These pits are to the southeast of Harlton village proper. It was where the  _clunch,_ the term for hardened chalk from a band of white cretaceous limestone, had been mined and used to build Cambridge Castle in 1295. If I'm not mistaken, the quarry was last used for building material in 1906, which is why it is now a heavily-wooded recreation area."

 

"You'd think after seventeen years someone would have stumbled over the body."

 

"True, John, but there are dense areas in those woods near the quarry that are treacherous and which for obvious reasons are not commonly trafficked. Except for Willard and Barnet, no one knew she had followed her cousin Keith into the woods. No search was conducted there. In fact, according to the police reports, many eyewitnesses—as unreliable as ever— had spotted Heather all about the village of Harlton with her parents, with friends of friends, with school kids, but it's likely they were recalling her at other times." Sherlock gestured toward the door. "Shall we go?"

 

They nodded to the constables as they passed under and out from the blue tarp. Waiting for the detective team, Sherlock did not conceal his curiosity about who had caught the assignment. It was likely he would have words with Lestrade if he wasn't satisfied with the person put in charge. Sherlock demanded that whoever handled one of his cases devote their full attention.

 

John was just relieved to be standing on the pavement, freed from this case that haunted him. The yellow sunlight was a welcomed change from the blue world that had enclosed him.

 

"Why did you choose to call him  _Will_?" John questioned.

 

A disappointed frown crossed Sherlock's brow."Isn't it obvious?  _Will_  was the one constant in all the names he went by: Francis Prius  _Will_ ard,  _Will_ ard Francis Prius, and  _Will_  Franks."

 

Sherlock hadn't added 'any idiot could see this,' but John read between the lines and chuckled softly. "You're  _wrong_. That was  _not_  the only choice if consistency is the determining factor."

 

Sherlock pulled back, his face reflecting mild indignation at John's criticism. His arched brows conveyed the unspoken question.

 

"You could have called him _Fran."_  With a slightly different emphasis than Sherlock had used, John repeated the names. " _Fran_ cis Prius Willard, Willard  _Fran_ cis Prius, and Will  _Fran_ ks."

 

"Hmmm." Sherlock nodded in acknowledgment, but was not conceding. "Even though Fran is a man's name,  _Will_  sounds better."

 

"That's because you  _prefer_  the name Will," John teased.

 

"No. It was the  _most_  logical choice for a name."

 

"If you say so." John feigned surrender. "But, isn't that one of your names?"

 

"Not Will. Will _iam_  Sherlock Scott Holmes." Sherlock did not like John's implication that subconscious favoritism or sentiment of any kind played a role in his decision.

 

"Should I be looking for permutations of those names if ever you decide to ditch me again?" John realized he sounded harsher than he had originally intended and almost regretted having asked his question.

 

"Sigerson."

 

"Huh, sorry?"

 

"Only idiots would use any recognizable part of their actual names." Sherlock squinted in the sunshine, spotting the official vehicles as they pulled up. Before the detectives had got out of their cars, however, Sherlock turned toward John, his voice solemn, his eyes riveting, and spoke with quiet intensity. "Look for Lars Sigerson, and you will  _always_  find me."

 

John averted his gaze, feeling the jolt of Sherlock's trust run through him, and at the same time, wondering if he should believe him. After all they have been through, John wanted very much to believe and desperately needed to trust Sherlock, but perhaps that might only happen if he overcame the cause of his own disbelief and mistrust—why had Sherlock not spoken one word in protest before the authorities closed the case on the accidental deaths of Mary and Rosamund Mary Watson?

 

 _Give it more time,_  the voice in his head said. That had seemed to be the answer to everything lately.

 

Accepting his own advice, John decided he needed more time to think.

 

888 888


	17. Unburied Truths: On the Threshold

**ooOOOoo**

**Gift of Silence**

**ooOOOoo**

**_ooOOOoo_ **

**_Friday, May 26, 2017_ **

 

 

It was late at night when John unlocked the front door of his home and went inside. After shutting it, he leant back and let the hard wood surface support him. Standing in the dark at the threshold, he closed his eyes. Tonight, he preferred it. Flipping on the lights would have distracted him with sights of painfully familiar objects guaranteed to clutter his mind with souvenirs of loss and pain. He also did not want to surrender to the demands of the punchbag that compelled him every night to erase his rage, albeit temporarily, with exhaustion. Instead, he stood still and waited. Something felt different.

 

At first he let the thoughts about the day, vivid and fresh, occupy him. And what a day it had been. Starting with an early visit to Bart's to hear Molly Hooper's forensic analysis, peaking with the pedophile and his abductor being taken into custody, and concluding with Sherlock and John giving their reports, it had been just like old times. The legalities would still have to be sorted out by the Met and the courts, but the obligation to their client, Jill Hardings, had been fulfilled.

 

 _Hell,_   _Sherlock may even have solved the cold case of Heather Barnet's disappearance._ As far as John was concerned, sometimes not all mysteries got solved to everyone's satisfaction, but he would wager that now that Sherlock had the scent, the detective would not rest until this was resolved. John suspected a visit to quarry pits was in someone's future.

 

Despite the harrowing nature of the case, tonight John felt … _yes_ …he felt  _good_  about what they had accomplished, and this  _was_  something different. It was as if the events of this day had purged some of his long-suffering pain. And then it hit him. It was  _not_  just today. The past three weeks had been a trial by fire, a fierce crucible of awareness that had begun to melt the flaws in his perceptions—those things he did not want to hear during the past five months.

 

Resting against the door, he felt transformed, as if a tensile understanding of facts had been forged, and he was prepared to be pulled from the fire to cool. John felt lighter, stronger, whole, and ready to listen to the nagging truths buried in the ashes of his grief.

 

This newfound serenity was decidedly not what John had been feeling a few days before when he had first returned to his quiet home.

 

888

 

**_…Three days ago_ **

After his Tuesday morning visit to the ENT, John had been unprepared for Sherlock's interview with the Coopers and especially what had happened during their meeting; the timing couldn't have been more mortifying for his stubborn cortex to get the message—loud and clear—that he was no longer deaf. Doing his best to recover from the initial shock, John had tried to appear relatively unfazed, until Sherlock and he were heading back to the South Kensington Station amid the noise of traffic. The blast of a passing car's horn had been a trumpet fanfare announcing his return to the world of the hearing. As he stood at the kerb and avoided being hit, John had been struck by the realization—he was no longer disabled and dependent. Relishing his sudden freedom, he had blurted out the first thing that had come to his mind. "I can go home again..." This simple statement had been followed by the best excuse he could muster on the spur of the moment. "Need to think."

 

Whenever John had heard those three familiar words it usually meant Sherlock was ditching him. Not this time.  _He_  had been the one leaving Sherlock "to carry the can," letting the detective go alone to deliver the sealed envelope containing evidence from Jeremy's alleged molester. John had not meant to be ungrateful to Sherlock for the two-week hospitality, if that was what one might call the detective's regime of rigorous therapies that had forced him back onto his feet; however, with his hearing newly recovered, John now needed to find his way back home, to reconnect with the memories there—to simply regroup.

 

It had seemed to John that Sherlock should have understood this, but he hadn't. Clearly the  _genius_  had not thought John needed a timeout nor had he considered how many times in the past John had been given no choice when the detective ditched him with the same excuse. Whilst John's simple "see you" followed by his mumbled thanks had certainly taken his friend by surprise, John could only interpret the inscrutable expression on Sherlock's face as tremendous disappointment.

 

Parting company at the Tube and connecting to the commuter line, John had been eager to return to what Sherlock had often described as "a dull and bourgeois suburban house on an uninteresting suburban street." When Mary and Rosie had been there, it had not mattered what Sherlock felt about it; it was the place John had felt he most belonged.

 

The taxi ride from the train station could not bring him home soon enough and after overpaying the driver because he hadn't wanted to wait for change, John had hurried toward the front door. Digging for the keys that had sunk to the bottom of his jacket pocket—he had never removed them during his convalescence—John grasped them with fumbling fingers and managed to insert the key in the slot despite his shaking hands.

 

It had been two weeks to the day since he last had crossed the threshold. Surprisingly, "home" had  _appeared_  no different than to how he'd left it, except that his post had accumulated in his private letterbox and dust had coated the furniture. But it  _felt_  different.

 

After recuperating in the  _asylum_  at Baker Street, John had expected his homecoming would have been restorative, but he had immediately discovered that returning to this place of private mourning had been more than a mistake. It was torture. Sharp reminders of Mary and Rosie—like slashing knife cuts—had assailed him. Fending off the pain, John had advanced deeper into the rooms, the spaces where his family had existed. Echoes of their voices and gossamer images of their faces had strained through him and just as quickly had vanished, robbing him of company and leaving him alone in the lifeless flat.

 

Wednesday morning, John had resumed the routine of his responsibilities by appearing at the surgery, discussing his recovery and setting up a patient schedule, as well as connecting with Sherlock on issues regarding their case. Try as he might to restore normalcy in his life, such as stopping for a trim where the snip-snip of the barber's clippers had seemed acutely loud and picking up groceries at Tesco, the second night had been as difficult at the first. The sense of isolation, loss, and shame he felt within those rooms merely had compounded his sorrow.

 

By Thursday night, John had stood on his own doorstep, immobilized, reluctant to move forward, and through sheer force of will, resisted the strongest temptation to flee to the world of the living—and Baker Street. Instead, he had unlocked his front door and gone inside. It had seemed evident, after everything that had happened, that home was not the same place it had been before his injury. It had changed as much as John. The rooms were no longer filled with the agonizing blend of pleasurable and painful memories, little joys, great emotions, and eviscerating deprivation. Everything appeared unfamiliar, and John looked in wonder at how he had become surrounded by so many inanimate objects that lacked any sentimental significance.

 

888

 

**Friday, 26 May, 2017**

 

Three days ago, when Skylar had cried "Daddy," causing John's abrupt reentry into the hearing world, it had opened his ears; yesterday John's eyes had been opened.

 

However, on this fourth night in his own home, he was ready to open his mind. Invigorated by the events of the day and with the reassuring pressure of the door against his back, John felt steady, finally ready to examine  _why_  he had mistaken her voice for his daughter's. It was ridiculously obvious now. He could not accept that Rosie was dead— _because_ he could no longer  _believe_ she had died in the fire, and neither had Mary.

 

And Sherlock's reticence to discuss their deaths meant he clearly didn't believe it either.

 

Shaking his head, John squeezed his eyes tighter, trying to quell the rage that threatened to erupt within him. He could not let it obscure the process. He needed to follow Sherlock's example, leaving emotions out of the picture so he could see things clearly.

 

Further theories were coming quickly now that he had accepted the possibility of deception. All these months John had held that his wife and child had died in the fire, not as hapless victims of an accident, but because the woman he knew as Mary had a target on her back. But he had got it all wrong. This possibility that they had  _not_  perished in the flames felt closer to the truth than any theory others had advanced. The destruction he had witnessed at the burnt-out cottage, and the evidence presented to him afterwards at the Inquest had been purposefully designed to mislead him.

 

 _Fool me once, shame on you, fool me twice_ …. As an eyewitness to deliberate misdirection, John had been deceived by Sherlock's dramatic leap and shocking death and had suffered nearly two years of grief. John was unwilling to be duped again. His sole regret was not having had this awakening sooner.

 

It all fit. The investigation was a sham. Although the report claimed human remains had been found in the ash, the high-temperature fire had compromised the fragments and the official conclusion had been based upon circumstantial evidence _—how convenient._  Now that John was convinced that the integrity of the investigation had been thrown into question, he suspected the evidence itself. He seriously doubted that there were any bodies in the ruins at all, and more than likely, the reports had been entirely falsified. Whoever was behind this plan deliberately meant to obfuscate the disappearances of the victims.

 

The singular question now was not  _how_  it was done or even why but  _by whom?_

 

The problem of Mary's past had always been the enemy behind the door, waiting. It was evident in the way she remained aware and alert about everything, vigilant and incredibly observant—sometimes she shamed Sherlock with details she retained—because her survival depended on it.

 

John had also overlooked two significant clues that 'all was not as it seemed' that New Year's Eve night; Mary had left her mobile—which the police had used to redial him—in their car that fortunately or deliberately had been parked at the end of the drive, far enough away not to be damaged by the fire. He should have realized that the location of the car at the holiday cottage was odd in itself. It was not parked close to the house where unpacking a toddler and bundles would be far simpler and more convenient. As Mary was sheer genius at logistics, eliminating unnecessary steps or streamlining efforts in reaching her objectives, why had she parked so far from the cottage?

 

The investigators had checked their Audi hatchback and Mary's phone for obvious clues. Finding nothing significant, they had returned both to John several days after the fire. Now, the family car was a sad reminder of loss; he drove it only to the train station to catch the commuter line. And the phone was a painful keepsake which John had kept tucked out of sight in a drawer.

 

 _The phone._  Why hadn't it occurred to him before? Mary never went  _anywhere_  without her mobile. Her phone was always on hand as an information-gathering tool. She had programmed it herself with different levels of password protection to give her all kinds of alerts from bad weather, shopping sales, and traffic problems to receiving hacked— _he only suspected_ —MI6 updates on world news. On rare occasions, when a certain tone pinged on her device, she would snatch it up quickly to check; John could see a glint of terror in her eyes whenever she heard that sound.

 

As the notifications had begun to occur more frequently, he had asked her about those calls, feeling the "business of her future" was in question and that it was "his privilege" to be informed, but she always dismissed him with assurances that "the coast is clear." Her face would beam jubilantly, and genuine relief shine in her radiant smile.

 

"Mary, you will tell me if the coast is not clear?" he had asked after one such ping had alarmed her visibly. Too late she had turned her back toward him to shield her reaction, but not before he had seen her complexion become ashen. Comforting her wordlessly, he wrapped his arms around her and kissed the nape of her neck.

 

"Of course, John, I will." She had nodded twisting in his embrace to face him.

 

"Promise?"

 

"Yes." But she had looked away when she gave him that answer.

 

"Yes, what?" He insisted, and gently lifting her chin, had tilted her face toward him.

 

"Yes, John. I promise I will tell you if  _our_  lives are in danger." She had delivered those words evenly, unblinkingly. "I owe you that."

 

And John had believed her. He had trusted her to include him, and  _that_  may have been his most serious mistake.

 

Although he had never felt his life and Rosie's were in danger from Mary, John had suspected Mary was not above deceit to further her purposes, whatever they may have been. She had made this one truth perfectly clear during a moment of rare and profound honesty. "Whatever it takes, John! Sherlock made that same vow, and so do I."

 

John also knew that despite Sherlock's vow and Mycroft's begrudging but resourceful intercession to watch over the woman John had made Mrs. Watson, Mary was self-reliant and would not relax her ingrained defenses with an unfailing trust in others. She was too clever for that.

 

She was too clever to die in a house fire.

 

Contrary to the official ruling, John was not only convinced the fire had been staged, at last he felt certain that such a cover-up would have been easy for someone with Mary's expertise. Until now, however, he had been wracked with the guilt that Mary had been attacked by a team of special operatives. That devastating night, when his rational mind had been overwhelmed by anguish, John Watson had reached out to the first person who could make sense of it—the only person who could give him comfort.

 

And Sherlock had responded without fail, zealously working throughout the night, familiarizing himself with geography, topography, and weather conditions of the area, refining his understanding of the details John had provided; arriving by dawn that New Year's morning Sherlock had set about gathering first-hand evidence for his investigation. What had been done to the Watsons was monstrous, and the detective was taking it personally.

 

**ooOOoo**

**ooOOoo**

**ooOOoo**

**_January 1, 2017_ **

 

Before dawn on New Year's Day, PC Sanders had retrieved a grief-stupefied John from the nearby inn to meet with the incident commander and official investigators. The constable had apologized for disturbing John after just a few hours of sleep, but John had requested this meeting and welcomed the call. There had been little sleep during a long night of regrets and second guesses.

 

When PC Sanders and John arrived at the fireground, first light had already crept over the eastern horizon and illuminated the charred ruins of the cottage in a soft glow. The pungent smell of burnt materials wafted in foul swirls on the crisp morning air. Working all through the night, members of the fire brigade kept watch as the police photographers recorded the scene and forensic specialists sketched and scribbled copious notes.

 

Utterly fatigued and shaky on his feet, John could not quite command his brain to pay attention to Investigator Samuelson's questions about Mary, her smoking habits or if he recalled her being overwrought or depressed. John did his best to exonerate Mary of accusations that implied she had caused the fire through neglect or suicidal tendencies but the voice of the work crews giving preliminary inspection reports often sidetracked him. He could tell his answers were not as articulate and confident as he would have liked. Samuelson had just asked another question, but John had become entirely distracted by a lone man in the distance heading up the road in their direction.

 

Even from a distance, John recognized the gait of the lanky figure braced for the winter chill in his signature greatcoat and scarf, and tears sprang to his eyes. Immediately the protective wall he had built to surround his grief crumbled. Masking his choked gasp with a feigned cough so Samuelson would not notice, John dropped his gaze. Listening for the detective's approach, feeling both comforted and oddly vulnerable now that Sherlock had arrived, John prepared to greet his friend.

 

To John's surprise, Sherlock avoided eye contact with him; the detective kept his face averted as he acknowledged each of the officials and held up identification—of doubtful legitimacy, John imagined—but which nonetheless impressed the investigators and got Sherlock access. With his evidence collection kit slung over his shoulder, Sherlock headed over to inspect the area cordoned off by police tape to begin a dispassionate inspection of the ruins. Skirting past John with his head down, Sherlock offered his friend a simple, "John," in a dry, detached greeting and moved swiftly on to discourage a reply.

 

Feeling utterly superfluous, John listened to the work crews speaking in loud daytime voices as they prepared for their routine tasks. He had been at enough crime scenes to understand the professional distance with which these people worked, but it still seemed sacrilegious to profane such a place with ordinary talk. The longer John stood isolated from his surroundings, the more numb he grew, not from the cold temperatures that had begun to climb in the light of day, but from grief. He barely had the energy to puzzle by Sherlock's peculiar disregard. He half expected Mary would soon nudge him awake from this nightmare.

 

Not quite an hour later, Sherlock returned from the ruins with samples he had tucked in the shoulder bag, passed John again without so much as sidelong glance, and conferred with the officials in a voice too low for John to hear. Whilst Sherlock kept his back toward John the entire time, John saw that whatever he said elicited nods from the fire brigade's divisional officer and crime scene senior investigator. They darted glances at John with nods of sympathy—doubtless Sherlock had reminded them that a relative of the victims was present. In the next moment they headed off to deal with other responsibilities at the scene, leaving Sherlock standing alone.

 

John read hesitation in the hunch of his friend's shoulders and then conviction when he squared them. Sherlock turned around and with his head downcast approached John in silence, not looking up even when they were nearly standing toe to toe.

 

John waited. For what…. he didn't know.

 

Sherlock exhaled a weary sigh and raised his head, nodding in silent greeting. John noted the strain in the familiar face, the set jaw, clamped lips, and creased brow, keeping tight control with a detachment John had learnt to expect. Now, as their gazes met, John saw profound sorrow in the eyes peering back at him.

 

Suddenly lightheaded at this revelation, John's knees buckled and he nearly collapsed. Swift arms caught and steadied him; Sherlock did not loosen his grip until John had regained his balance.

 

Moments later, John nodded, pulled himself free, and with palms up in a gesture of assurance, indicated that he was capable of standing. However, he could not voice his usual protest:  _Fine. I'm fine._  John did not know if he would ever be fine again. Not yet ready to face Sherlock's scrutiny, he looked away.

 

For a short while they stood side-by-side to observe the investigation activity. There was no verbal exchange between them, just the companionable silence they had often shared, which in these moments of shock and heartache gave John great solace.

 

In a gentle whisper that caught John off-guard, Sherlock asked, "Shall we go?"

 

"Huh? Go where?" John turned toward his friend in surprise.

 

"Home."

 

" _Home?_  No, no, no. I can't—" John shook his head vigorously, finding the concept unimaginable.

 

"You're not needed here anymore."

 

As kindly as those words had been stated, they cut John too deep. "But I am…" his voice broke.

 

Uncharacteristically patient for several more minutes, Sherlock peered into the distance, apparently studying the barren orchard trees flanking the cottage. Just beyond, a stretch of ice forming on the lake's surface appeared solid and grey in the morning light. Swift-moving clouds churned on the horizon.

 

Abruptly, the detective turned toward the road. "Come, John. There is something you should see," and without another word he walked off.

 

With his reverie disrupted, John's knee-jerk reaction was to object loudly. "Hey. Wait! Where are you going?"

 

"I've rented a car," Sherlock responded over his shoulder and picked up his pace.

 

"What? A  _car_?" John was deeply torn about leaving.

 

"I parked it up the road a bit." Sherlock's voice carried despite the widening distance between them. "It's just a short walk."

 

John caught him up quickly. "Why did you leave it there?" he huffed in the cold air.

 

"I was looking for clues along the roadside. It was why I was bit delayed…."

 

"Did you find any?"

 

"Some things, yes, but I can't yet comment on their relevance… I will have to examine them."

 

John halted once more and turned back to look at the blackened timbers that rose in stark contrast to the greying sky. Hesitantly, he voiced regret at leaving. "Sherlock, I….I'm not sure about ….."

 

"It's time for you to go, John." Sherlock responded with the unassailable voice of reason. "They said you can leave and we have many issues we need to address…"

 

"Okay." John agreed reluctantly, a lump settling in the back of his throat. "Where are we going?"

 

"To find answers…."

 

"Good. I can't rest until I know what happened…"

 

"Then we'd best get started."

**ooOOOoo**

**ooOOOoo**

**ooOOOoo**

**Friday, 26 May, 2017**

 

As John stood alone in his dark home, leaning against the door and experiencing flashbacks of everything that had occurred until this final moment, things began to coalesce, to focus.

 

He recalled how in January Sherlock had been hell-bent on obtaining those answers to champion John's cause. An unstoppable force, the detective had been as thorough, methodical, and vocal about his findings as always. After cataloguing the fire brigade's and police's boot prints at the muddy scene, he had assured John that excepting Mary's tracks into the house there were no other footprints suggesting intruders lurking about or evidence of a struggle around the cottage. This determination was only of negligible relief to John.

 

Sherlock had also noted tyre marks of a car, possibly from a 2016 Volvo V60 Sports Wagon, known to him to have that particular wheelbase and tread design. It had been parked nearby off the main road. It had been the only sign of another vehicle in the vicinity of the cottage until the Fire Brigade and John's taxi had arrived. That there were no prints around where this car had been was the most curious and unsettling thing about its presence. After studying the ground with his pocket lens, Sherlock had determined whatever prints existed had been deliberately disrupted to thwart identification.

 

Heartbreak and shock prevented John from making the connections Sherlock had been exploring during the first days of his investigation. If Sherlock had expected John to follow him on his journey of discovery, the detective was too fast and John was too sluggish and paralyzed with sorrow to keep up. However, after the heated argument with Mycroft several days later at Baker Street, Sherlock had become silent— it had been as though a switch had been flicked. The next day, the now-detached detective coolly informed John that their case was too nebulous, and the evidence unsupportive. Not another word did he utter on the topic of Mary and Rosamund.

 

Now, five months later, John finally understood the abrupt change that had affected Sherlock back in January. These clues had been pointing to the unthinkable, which was why John had refused to allow it in his thoughts. He had not wanted to hear the truth. Believing they had died was so much easier than facing the dawning certainty that the woman he had chosen for his wife had been a phoenix, reborn before—how many times he did not know. Here once again she had sought to rise from the ashes to make a new life. And just as over four years before he had been left behind by the one man he had trusted most in all the world, five months ago the wife he loved had done the same. She had abandoned him with Rosie in tow, leaving him nothing.

 

 _Why?_  This was utterly unforgivable. John's rage surged back; he inhaled deeply and sharply to hold it at bay. Why would she leave him and take their child?

 

John had been a fool not to question the reason for that edgy timbre in Mary's voice days before the fire and to overlook the sheer regret that broke it when they said goodbye that morning. She had known she was leaving him; how was he to reconcile that with how fiercely she had loved him and the life they had built together? He recalled vividly how fearful she had been whenever her phone made that sound. It would seem irrational for his rational wife to succumb to this lure of an assassin's assignment, compelling her to rob John of their child just to flee the tedium of normalcy.

 

John could not shake his doubts. Did she take him for an idiot because he had trusted her? Sherlock—the man who had never before experienced the bond of such a deep friendship—may have  _underestimated_  how his death would have devastated John, but Mary  _knew._ She had witnessed the wreck John had been after Sherlock's deception firsthand. How could she ever pull the same cruel stunt on him?

 

His mind raced and lurched as he searched his memories. The sound of his heart pounded in his ears. Hadn't she promised to tell him when the coast was not clear? Had she received an alert and he was not aware? Frantically John tried to remember—where had he put Mary's phone?

 

Wearily John pushed himself off the door where he had been standing in thought all this time. Opening his eyes and allowing them to adjust to the dark, he clenched his hands in tight fists whilst from the depth of his lungs rose an anguished moan. Shattered, John tore through his darkened home, feeling for keepsakes within reach. Letting rage take over, he hurled them at the wall. The smashing sounds of memories rewarded his efforts. Furiously he heaved the dining room table onto its side and toppled the chairs. Finally, he charged his punchbag with flying fists until he spent all his agony. When he dropped to the floor, exhausted and strangely detached sitting in the dark, he surveyed the wreckage of his life forever tainted by the false vows of his lying wife.

 

John waited for his head to clear, and that was when he heard what he had been dismissing all along. The evidence was as plain as day: Sherlock had stopped investigating the case, not because there was no supporting evidence; because he had discovered the  _truth_ of what Mary had done _._

 

Why would Sherlock have waited all this time to tell him? He must have seen John become unhinged by the suspicions of a cover-up within a deep government conspiracy. He must have witnessed the torment John endured with the unanswered question: who had murdered his family? John found it unfathomable that the friend he had relied on to get answers had obviously felt he could not trust John with the knowledge that his family was still alive….

 

If  _that_  level of betrayal was possible, then couldn't  _anything_  be possible? Maybe even that  _Sherlock_  had engineered this whole scheme?

 

Overwhelmed by the possibility of such a blatant betrayal from those he loved, John covered his face with his hands too stunned to even shed a tear.

 

**888**

**Saturday, 27 May, 2017**

 

John woke on the floor amid the disarray of his worldly possessions. Pale light illuminated the window panes and birds were proclaiming the new day with vigorous predawn song. He stirred with effort, pushed himself up to rest on his elbows, and eased the kinks out of his neck and shoulders. The burn of muscles pushed to extremes in destroying the furnishings was compounded by having lain so long in a cramped and awkward position on the floor. His thoughts were groggy from his fitful sleep, but his greatest ache was not of the physical kind.

 

John pulled himself to his feet, stepped over the detritus, and went to the kitchen to make coffee. Whilst waiting for it to brew, he rummaged through the chest of drawers in the bedroom, and then worked his way to his bedside table where he found what he sought, Mary's phone—the one abandoned in the car—shoved toward the back of the drawer. After months of nonuse it needed charging before he could turn it on. He promptly plugged it in, returned to the sitting room, and dropped down into his arm chair. John bowed his head, clasped his hands and bent forward, but he was not praying. He was thinking about Sherlock, his best friend, who had kept silent all this time.

 

Years ago, when Irene Adler admitted she had flirted  _"At him. He n_ _ever replies,"_ John recalled his indignant reply.  _"No, Sherlock always replies —to everything. He's Mr. Punchline. He will outlive God trying to have the last word."_

 

" _Does that make me special?"_ The Woman had asked disingenuously.

 

John had not then realized the answer was yes. There  _was_  some significance when Sherlock's chose silence over words. Just as in law where it is understood that silence gives assent, silence was Sherlock's special code; through it Sherlock spoke volumes. Understanding this dimension of Sherlock required intimate knowledge of the man and the ability to read between  _his_  lines—apparently not an ability John had mastered.

 

After everything that they had experienced together, John should have known to listen to the silence this time. It was not  _just_  that Sherlock had stopped talking about the case—it was also how suddenly it had happened.

 

History was repeating itself. John had failed to read between the lines that fateful day in Bart's lab. At the news that Mrs. Hudson's had been shot, Sherlock displayed appalling disinterest to misdirect John. Later, on the rooftop Sherlock had manipulated his words telling John lies between unspoken truths. Afterward, not "one word" came from beyond the grave during those two bloody years in which Sherlock had made sacrifices and endured what must have been unspeakable torture to protect his friends. Sherlock had never named who had shot him in Magnussen's office. When he chose to reveal the identity of the shooter, he had bypassed verbal explanations that John would have found too inconceivable, and instead set a trap to obtain undeniable proof before John's very eyes. Despite the intensity of the pedophile investigation, Sherlock had not breathed a word of the Willard/Prius case during John's recovery at 221B. Every silence Sherlock had kept had protected the truths that, first and foremost, protected John.

 

So when the detective who "would outlive God to have the last word" chose not to speak, John needed to figure out what it was that Sherlock was  _not_  saying.

 

Knowing what he must do, John bolted from his chair. Retrieving Mary's partly recharged phone along with the cord, John tucked them both in his pocket, stepped over the ruins of his home—his own bolt hole in which he had been hiding from the truth—and headed for the door. Sherlock's secrets had filled the silence between them for the past five months, and finally John was ready to hear them.

 

ooOOOoo

888&&&888


	18. The Friar's Fault

**ooOOOoo**

**Gift of Silence**

**ooOOOoo**

**Friar Lawrence:** _Who bare my letter, then, to Romeo?_

 

**ooOOOoo**

**ooOOOoo**

**Saturday, 27 May, 2017**

 

"It's about time, John."

John heard Sherlock's voice before he had reached the second landing. The flat was dim, but it was not hard to spot the detective seated at his table with his fingers flying over the laptop keys, his face silhouetted by the glow of the screen.

 

"Good. You're up." John's temper, easily discernible in his rarely-heard gruff bass, had diminished from boiling to a slow simmer during the twenty-minute cab ride. "I would have dragged you out of bed by the heel if you weren't."

 

"Not necessary." Sherlock commented dryly without an acknowledging glance and finished his last bit of typing. He closed his laptop quickly, pushed back his chair, and stood to face his friend. "I've been waiting—"

 

"Don't give me that..." John hissed and pointed to the soft yellow of daybreak buttering the window panes. "It's not yet six in the morning! I can't conceivably be late —"

 

"You misunderstand. I didn't say you were late. I meant that I've been expecting you…this…conversation for a long time…." Sherlock corrected himself carefully, not wanting to give John further provocation, "…the one you're about to initiate..."

 

"So, you know what this is about, do you?"

 

Sherlock ignored John's glower, but gave a simple nod.

 

"Oh, I see.' John flared. "Let's experiment and see how  _long_  it takes John Watson's  _idiot_  brain to work it out, shall we?"

 

Sherlock remained impassive, his eyes unreadable.

 

As Sherlock offered no protest, John erupted. "Bollocks, Sherlock! I was grieving— _clearly_  a concept you fail to understand—trying to find out what the  _hell_  happened!" John hurled the cutting remark and paced the sitting room, unable to look directly at his friend. "You couldn't have helped me along with that, hmmmm? Hint about it, maybe? Oh you know, just  _bloody_  tell me the truth?"

 

In the face of this charge, Sherlock dropped his gaze; his mouth pulled a thin grimace. "When I discovered—"

 

"They were  _alive_ …that was five months ago!" John yelled, advancing angrily toward his friend. John's face was mere inches from Sherlock's yet Sherlock did not recoil despite his friend's justified ferocity.

 

"Yes. Months ago, I would have told you except—" he resumed calmly.

 

"—except  _WHAT?_ "

 

Locking stares, the two men faced each other. After months of Sherlock's duplicitous silence, the chasm between them was about to be bridged by the truth.

 

Searching Sherlock's face, John found a truth he feared and shoved Sherlock back as he turned away. "You  _let_  Mycroft shut you down! You  _lied_  to me—" The rasp in his voice choked off further sound. John stomped toward the landing, frustrated. It was nearly intolerable to be in Sherlock's presence knowing how his friend had lied and lied, yet he could not go anywhere without hearing the answers he sought. Immediately he spun back around and thundered with rage. " _Bloody hell!_  Not  _this_ time! The _two_  of you had  _no goddamned right_  to …to …to hide the truth … about _my_  wife and  _my_  child… to interfere in  _my_   _life_ —"

 

Still Sherlock stood, silent and immobile.

 

His body trembling with fury, John glared at Sherlock and tilted his head, as if he needed to hear better; and hear he did, quite clearly as never before. "No, no, no, no, no…" he shook his head as if to dislodge his disbelief. "You're implying it's all Mary. She did this? All of it?  _JES_ -us!" John snarled, shoving the stacks of papers and books off the coffee table in a fit of rage. " _Sod it!"_

 

Sherlock did not flinch as John railed. Rather, he registered the tempo of John's agitated breaths, waiting until they slowed, to answer. "Not all of it. She had outside assistance, only… she wasn't planning to leave without you…"

 

"What?" John's lungs seized.

 

"She was  _taking_ you…  _with_ … her." The baritone voice tonelessly dispensed the words. "Her plan was for all three of you to leave together and assume new identities."

 

John blinked, nonplussed.

 

"Something happened that day and she couldn't wait," Sherlock went on, forming each statement distinctly, measuredly, to ensure the words penetrated. "The message she sent never reached you—"

 

"—Go  _where?_ " Bewildered, John palmed his eyes, and continued gruffly, "her message? What message? I never got anything! What do you mean  _something_  happened? Where are they now?"

 

Responding to all John's questions with one answer, "I can't say…," Sherlock's eyes grew distant as he retreated to his Mind Palace, leaving John behind.

 

"You can't or you won't? Tell me,  _goddamn it!"_  John rushed forward and grabbed Sherlock's arms with powerful hands, shaking him to stay in the present reality of Baker Street. "I have a right to know what you know— _everything_. What has Mary done? Stop protecting me from the truth!"

 

Aquamarine eyes refocused on John, and Sherlock's lips parted as he prepared to break his silence.

 

**ooOOOoo**

**ooOOOoo**

 

**Five months earlier - January 6th, 2017**

**_Baker Street_ **

 

"Parliament may still be on holiday recess, Sherlock, but I have  _work_  to do." Wearing imperious airs along with his steel-grey three-piece suit, Mycroft appeared polished and primed, always prepared for the remotest possibility that on short notice he might be invited to tea with Royalty. "You've not called me here to celebrate Epiphany, unless, of course, you've managed to have one of your own…"

 

Standing beside his work table with his hands clasped behind his back, Sherlock glared at his brother but held his peace.

 

"Oh I see! Your  _birth_ day. How unfortunate I've come empty handed." Mycroft patted his jacket pockets. "Too bad. I've forgotten my party hat." Feigning distress was the closest Mycroft came to attempting levity, and as usual it fell far from its mark. "You outgrew this childish ritual when you lost your beloved pet, didn't you? Can't say I haven't warned you time and time again about how vulnerable you are when it comes to forming attachments—"

 

"You would do well, Mycroft, to stop stalling." Sherlock's voice was as tight as a coiled spring. "We both know why you're here."

 

The elder Holmes pulled a handkerchief from his breast pocket and dusted off the mantel before selecting a suitable spot to rest his elbow. He appraised his frowning brother dispassionately. "Oh, yes. You want to know… What? Can't you figure it out?"

 

"I know enough," Sherlock countered. "And I  _have_ figured it out. In fact, it was quite transparent, which means others will have figured it out too, and after recognizing it for the the obvious ruse it is, they will find their target and go in for the kill."

 

With an arch of one eyebrow Mycroft considered the remark. "Yet you waited  _six_  days to approach me. Most curious."

 

"I waited... to let the operation play out without interference, as you obviously did not wish for my involvement," Sherlock spoke frankly, unwilling to spar with his brother. He had no patience for trading barbed taunts when so much was at stake. "I had to consider that the secrecy could be in place to protect the Watsons, but whatever the plan, it was poorly devised and even more poorly  _advised_."

 

Mycroft arched his other eyebrow and answered in a voice both burdened and resigned. "What would you have me say, brother?  _Your_  vow was fulfilled. 'Whatever it takes…' I emphasize the  _whatever_  in this case. For their protection, there was no other way. Their departure required cooperation in staging the fire, establishing cause of death, authenticating it for the record—make it believable. It cannot have surprised you that  _this_  woman—let's call her Mary—had to fake her death, not for the first time _,_  to escape her enemies."

 

"That is your first major error," Sherlock criticized his brother's logic. "Their deaths were unbelievable—especially in light of the poor forensic evidence left—and well you know that authentic documents and red tape are quite ineffective at thwarting an investigation by those who regularly fabricate such things. The fire has been but a porous smokescreen at best. Your falsified reports will be an obvious ploy—even John, with his mind clouded by grief, will eventually intuit that his wife and child would not have died this way. But their foes are as coldly calculating as we are and would not be so easily fooled into believing their target has met so grisly a fate. You've left a trail—"

 

A smug grin appeared on Mycroft's face. "Oh, Sherlock. How disappointing. Surely you are aware that a well-planned deception, like a precisely cut diamond, can have many facets? What makes you think there was only one level in this subterfuge? You might do well to consider again about whom we are speaking. When done, she would have left no trails."

 

"I don't care how many layers have been created or how deep the levels in the deception run, Mycroft," Sherlock spoke through clenched teeth. "This was not sending a  _team_  undercover. This was disassembling John's  _family_ —"

 

"You actually believe that, do you? Your idea of 'family' is touching, certainly. Well, for the sake of their innocent child, that illusion was well-maintained." Mycroft's manner shifted from priggish to practical. "Even so, they just as easily could have had been slaughtered at home in their beds. No, Mary Morstan was always destined to have a short life as Mrs. Watson. Would you have wanted the same fate for your friend? Keep in mind, Sherlock; they would not have spared John Watson or his daughter if they found them  _en famille._ "

 

Sherlock peered at his brother with suspicious, narrowed eyes. Mycroft's voice lacked its customary condescension; he might have appeared blasé, but Mycroft was clearly uncomfortable, disquieted.

 

"Why had John been left behind?" Sherlock wondered aloud of his brother whilst resisting thoughts of his friend suddenly disappearing forever. "John would have willingly 'died' along with his family and gone into the protection scheme."

 

Mycroft checked his fingernails and buffed them against his jacket before he answered. "Yes. I'm sure that is quite true. More's the pity." He remarked icily.

 

Sherlock felt the chill keenly. Mycroft was skittish about what had happened to the Watson family. Something had gone wrong. It was evident that the mother-and-child's "departure" had not been flawlessly carried out. Sherlock's thrust aside his legitimate concerns for how John might feel if Mary and Rosamund were in greater peril. Ploughing through Mycroft's circumlocution, Sherlock made a direct accusation. "So, Mycroft, how did you let the situation deteriorate so deplorably?"

 

Mycroft stopped buffing his nails and scoffed indignantly. "I had little to do with it. Favors were called in... myriad covert organizations came forward once news spread that she had not died. Then a bidding war ensued, even though she had been out of commission since 2008. Apparently A.G.R.A. had been a highly valued asset before she went rogue and subsequently vanished."

 

"A bidding war?" an unconvinced Sherlock asked.

 

"When a surprising number of special forces teams, not just American, were willing to give her sanctuary and aid in exchange for her legendary services, we learned that she had strong 'affiliations' on all sides and some possible links with Moriarty's networks. This seemed not to matter to the bidders. They all wanted to reel her back into service."

 

This news did not surprise Sherlock _. "Bad girl. Ah, she is so wicked,"_ Magnussen had remarked giving Sherlock more reason to watch Mary closely after those revelations at Appledore over two years ago. Despite his vigilance and his concern about who she might still be, once John had clearly reconciled with her, she had been careful to appear reformed and had done nothing to provoke Sherlock to move against her.  _Quite convincingly._

 

"Although I could not determine if any of the offers she considered had been in her best interests," Mycroft stated evenly, "I suspect she had been hard put to trust any of them wholeheartedly. It was reported that she had negotiated with various parties, among them some of the most unsavory in the intelligence world; it further appears she had been quite selective with whom she would ally herself; rightly so. Most recently I've discovered that numerous scenarios, all coded for secrecy, were actually contrived as a means to ensure no one organization knew them all."

 

Sherlock nodded his understanding; he knew well enough the dilemma of working alone behind enemy lines. To survive as a double agent, A.G.R.A. had to see duplicity everywhere and always suspect that those closest to her—in striking distance—were even more dangerous. "My researches yielded scant references to an A.G.R.A., limited to grade transcripts in her pre-clinical biological studies from the University of Cambridge and some papers published in Uni journals."

 

"Your researches? Not thorough enough, I'm afraid, brother mine. Hacking into the MI6 archives was your mistake, as consulting them were mine." Mycroft admitted frankly, his face flushed by annoyance. "You would not have found much there because this intelligence was not shared by others. These sources were embarrassingly unavailable to MI6 until the 'auction' for her return began. It seems, when she was active, she was indeed one of the most lethal and treacherous operatives in the field." Mycroft hesitated; his face blanched. "Shamefully, we didn't have all the details when we involved her in her current assignment...to keep an eye on the declining Watson while you lingered in 'death.' You knew soon enough this had been her role—"

 

During his "trip" to Victorian England, Sherlock had made the link between Mycroft and Mary in his subconscious. Afterwards, the signs were not hard to miss, so hearing it confirmed aloud in Mycroft's own voice was indeed no new revelation. However, discovering too late the depths of her past treachery was most unsettling, and Mycroft's admission utterly galling.

 

"—For God's sakes! Resulting in more than  _keeping_  an eye, Mycroft!" Sherlock's jaw tightened fractionally, livid beyond words with how this intrusive incompetence by his brother and his minions deeply impacted his friend. Mycroft had  _not_  done his homework thoroughly when he had ensnared John with a  _mata hari_  of dubious allegiance. Had A.G.R.A. really found redemption by deactivating herself to become Mary Morstan, or had she fooled them all so thoroughly? Was it all a magnificent act of a consummate liar, or had she been somehow rehabilitated by love for the noble John Watson? The 'Mrs. Watson' Sherlock had welcomed for John's sake had skillfully maintained a charming demeanor. She was certainly adept at reading and adapting to the all-too-human natures around her and—except for shooting Sherlock—her company had not been offensive. Far from it, she was pleasant, intelligent, clever in surprising ways, and actually likeable—which Sherlock was not inclined to admit about most people. It was no wonder John had fallen for her charms. They had seemed content with each other, but Magnussen must have seen something Sherlock had not. He had called them  _"Mr. and Mrs. Psychopath."_ Sherlock had taken that nomenclature under advisement and watched for signs of trouble, but since Rosamund's birth nothing untoward had been apparent.

 

"A.G.R.A. had had many alternate names through the years, but always with those initials." Regret flickered briefly across Mycroft's face. "Becoming Mary Morstan was a great departure. Perhaps she believed she could escape her darkness, turn over a new leaf, as it were, and become ordinary by choosing a simple name and a simpler life."

 

"A rose by any other name…." Sherlock pondered aloud, tapping his lips with his index finger, "…still has thorns." Sherlock recalled Mary's warning that she would  _do anything_  not to lose John. Although John had become wary of his wife after learning she had both shot Sherlock and had a past as an assassin, he found it easy to follow Sherlock's incomprehensible advice to seek reconciliation with her, mainly because he continued to have genuine and deep feelings for her. He had warned her that he might get royally pissed off time and again, but the man was loyal to a fault. For the same reason, John had readily played the part of dutiful husband well. When their daughter was born, he had succumbed to the joys of fatherhood effortlessly; he loved and was completely devoted to their daughter; he even managed to believe in his marriage, for John's biggest flaw was that he honored his word and gave it to those who truly did not deserve it. Sherlock included himself in this category. No wonder his psychologist had noted his trust issues.

 

"It doesn't matter what name she had assumed," Sherlock told his brother. "In her own way she truly loves John and would not hurt him. She is protective, fiercely loyal…"

 

"But hurting others is not beyond her, Sherlock, if that ensures her own survival. From what we now know, some might argue that it was not loyalty but manipulation, and by manipulating John, she manipulated you. Did it not hurt you to see John so  _domesticated_?" There was no mockery in his words, but neither was there sympathy.

 

"It is what John wants," Sherlock replied coolly.

 

Mycroft looked down his nose and pulled a face. "Yes, but it is an interesting correlation. If there is some truth to her alleged ties to Moriarty, then this marriage is far more insidious than we had believed. One might even say cynical, Sherlock. Either way, I agree that after her initial misstep with you, she gave no further cause for alarm. She seemed to have thoroughly defected to the side of genuine sentiment for a time and foolishly gambled on romance with your soldier pal, enough to produce a daughter. That was somewhat shortsighted of her, don't you agree? With such a reputation, she must have known that her past would catch her up and put those she  _claimed_  to love in jeopardy." Mycroft sniffed sardonically. "Giving hostages to fortune, I am reliably informed, is not true love."

 

Sherlock heard but did not respond to Mycroft's pronouncement. "Were there  _any_  plans in her best interests?

 

"It's hard to be certain. As I said, I was not involved. I was merely given the courtesy of being apprised when it went down. What little I know, I learned in subsequent inquiries—once the cat was out of the bag, so to speak."

 

"Why did she choose this particular plan, do you think?"

 

"Time had run out. She could no longer remain Mrs. Watson," Mycroft fidgeted uncomfortably and shrugged. "No doubt if John knew this, he would wish to believe this was a difficult choice, even if the evidence were overwhelming that fleeing was far more expedient than staying." He paused and averted his eyes before continuing. "Except the plans went quickly awry. Simply put: the integrity of the operation had become compromised. Last-minute changes required moving up the timetable by hours to ensure a successful departure from  _this_  'mortal coil.' Apparently, as your friend is still alive and wondering who murdered his family, the crucial message to extricate Dr. Watson from his hectic day at the surgery and hustle him to meet them failed to reach him."

 

Sherlock felt both relieved and aggrieved. "John  _was_  supposed to go then—"

 

"Catching on at last, then, Sherlock? Not at first. Mary's 'connections' did not want the husband along and she had agreed. The stubborn woman had a change of heart at some point, however, and did not want to abandon him.  _Pity._  Going their separate ways that day—he to work, she to the cottage—created a greater challenge. And she was not as up front with her contacts as she claimed to be. Is anyone surprised by this? It seems the wife had considered including him all along, but only made the final decision to take him as she motored up with their daughter to the cottage. She had reworked the mechanism of flight, presented her revised scheme hours before it was to happen, and planned to inform him when he arrived at a rendezvous site at the last minute. It might have worked too, but as Burns wrote, 'the best laid schemes o' mice an' men gang aft a-gley'…. It certainly had been a close call." Mycroft gestured away an unpleasant thought and resumed with reservation. "All's well that ends well, one might say. At least mother and child had got away without a hitch. Just as well. A man, woman, and a child—a family unit in hiding—presented certain complications. It would have been obvious and precisely what their pursuers would be looking for…."

 

"You're certain that John knew absolutely nothing about this plan?"

 

"He did not. That way, she could also safeguard against his inadvertent hints to you that she assumed he would have been unable to resist making and which you'd probably have been able to decipher. Unlike you, Sherlock, John Watson could not have left in good conscience without telling you. They would have escaped in secret with ample time to reach the first milestone on their journey before the news broke about the entire Watson family perishing tragically in a fire whilst on holiday…. Well, it would not have made headlines but it would have reached certain ears."

 

"Mine among them," Sherlock muttered. It seemed that A.G.R.A.'s past had caught her up, but Moriarty's threat about Sherlock's future had nearly come true, as well. Mary may have been claiming her right as a wife to include her husband in a fugitive's life and start over anew, but if she had succeeded in taking John with her the night of the fire, then she would have, unwittingly, fulfilled Moriarty's promise; she would have burned the heart out of Sherlock.

 

Nothing in Sherlock Holmes' history with John Watson would persuade the detective that John could have been subverted or coerced into cooperating with that scenario, but losing John like that would have decimated him...

 

"I feared how you would have handled that, brother…" Mycroft mirrored Sherlock's thoughts in an unexpectedly gentle voice.

 

Sherlock could feel Mycroft's eyes on him, but he had closed his own to listen.

 

Mycroft cleared his throat of soft sentiments and continued with his exposé in a more detached manner. "You asked what went wrong? Besides the urgent challenges of undercover activities complicated by an intricate timetable with last-minute changes, there were some peculiar, unforeseen variables. If the good doctor had not had a patient code on him—suspected MI and ongoing acute chest pain—in his office, he might have be able to leave early. If he had not responded as he was trained to do, acting more like the highly skilled surgeon he used to be, delivering critical care, then he might not have accompanied the patient to the hospital forgetting his phone in the office. If the message about a 'sudden family emergency' had reached him before he had gone to the hospital, he might have handed over his responsibility to another doctor. If Mrs. Watson's phone network had not been deliberately breached at such a critical junction, triangulating her whereabouts and closing her window of opportunity—need I go on? You see it was, as they say, 'a series of unfortunate events.'"

 

Still as a stone, Sherlock took in how random chance had kept John from "dying" in the New Year's Eve fire. He would not give Mycroft the satisfaction of seeing him pleased.

 

"Silver linings might be found in that Dr. Watson's patient survived and will recover," Mycroft spoke in the absence of Sherlock's response and zeroed in on Sherlock's vulnerable spot. "Most importantly, you get to keep your good doctor…." Mycroft finished in a near-simper.

 

"Never mind all that." Sherlock waved his hand in dismissal of his personal interests. "Can a rendezvous be arranged to reunite them?"

 

"Why?" Mycroft seemed surprised. "You are looking a gift horse in the mouth…"

 

"Answer my question, Mycroft." There was an edge in Sherlock's voice that had not been there moments ago.

 

"In addition to each scenario, there  _had_  been backup plans, some more labyrinthine than others, for a rendezvous if necessary…" Mycroft brushed a speck of lint off his jacket. "As I say many diversions…many possible turning points to keep everyone guessing…The original operations had been engineered for a single mother to eventually take up residence in a large city in the U.S. or in the wilder parts of Canada. With her daughter, she would have blended best in obscurity, as the ratio of single-parent households has jumped significantly in those countries." Mycroft hesitated, a gloomy expression flickered in his eyes, and abruptly he became irritated. "What's done is done. Besides, you should be most grateful. John Watson is too valuable here, working beside you."

 

Sherlock opened his eyes with a blink and refuted what his brother had just said, his voice harsher than it needed to be. "That should  _have been_  and still  _should be_  HIS decision, Mycroft. Not yours. Not mine." Sherlock was disgusted and frustrated, but mostly he was furious for John, for everyone using him as their pawn, even as he had unforgivably done in the past... but not anymore.

 

Now that he was certain of his facts, Sherlock had every intention of exposing the sham and letting John decide what he wanted to do with this information. John's instincts had been spot on. Now, with his doubts dispelled, Sherlock could explain events in such a way as to assuage John's grief and guilt. In time, together they would find a way to reunite him with his family.

 

"I will tell John the truth and  _give_ him the choice you and Mary denied him."

 

"He no longer has a choice."

 

"What do you mean?" Sherlock hitched a breath.

 

"He has lost his family once already. Do you think it fair, kind or wise to inform him that he has lost them a second time?"

 

"For God's sake, stop being so bloody cryptic and spit it out, Mycroft, if there's more to this than you're letting me on!" Sherlock railed in frustration.

 

Irritated by his brother's uncharacteristic slowness, Mycroft frowned. "Missed communiques were bad enough, but the intelligence that was leaked afterwards about the cottage fire was designed to be heartbreaking. Apparently Dr. Watson died tragically as a result of running into a burning building to save his wife and baby. Whilst the channels disseminating this faulty information were most unreliable, probably fed to draw Mary out of hiding, she had no means to confirm the veracity of the report—rather like the tragedy of Romeo and Juliet, each thinking the other dead and losing all hope. In Shakespeare's tragedy, it was the fault of that foolish Friar Lawrence. Whose fault is it for the star-crossed Watsons, I wonder?"

 

"What do you mean by tragedy?" Sherlock asked tonelessly.

 

A grim line furrowed Mycroft's brow, and his eyes seemed dimmed and troubled. "Four days ago in northwest Turkey, extremists kidnapped and assassinated local civic leaders, civilians and then targeted Westerners, innocent people—including women and children. Many were killed on the spot with automatic rifles, their bodies burned in the street. The losses were great. Some were my colleagues." Mycroft faltered briefly with the gravity of information before resuming in a flat voice. "These atrocities were compounded by several large car bombs that rocked the sector. Utter Bedlam has ensued for days now. Casualties have been high—we don't have the exact numbers or corroborating data but we fear the worst." Mycroft bowed his head. "At that time, we lost all contact with Mary and Rosamund, just as they arrived at a prearranged exchange site between the Greek and Turkish borders; Uzunköprü, if memory serves. Within the scale of this calamity, the Watsons are one, small component...so you see, it has ended badly. It is all too late now for a rendezvous even if your friend decided to go to them. And had he been there, he, too, would have been killed."

 

Hand at his forehead, Sherlock shielded his eyes and pressed his lips together. Headlines about the egregious attacks had been bombarding the news since they began. The attacks provoked outrage among countries and evoked declarations of retaliation by regional political entities. Videos and photos of devastated relatives wailing with grief filled the internet, newspapers, and telly.

 

As terrible as it was, now it had hit so much closer to home. John could have been counted among the dead but for a missed mobile call. And now his family was  _twice_   _dead, and under such circumstances_. How could that not destroy John who already grieved their loss? On the heels of these thoughts, another kicked Sherlock in the ribs. How close he had come to losing his friend who by sheer luck had not been with them? With the barest shake of his head, Sherlock shoved away the thought and cleared his throat. "Are you  _sure_? Has it been confirmed that Mary and Rosamund were actually present during those attacks?"

 

"That is what we believe."

 

"Not another level in Mary's plan to disappear?" The tiniest doubt was a source, however brief, of hope for Sherlock.

 

"I'm sorry?"

 

"So you  _believe_  mother and daughter were collateral damage of this random terrorism... unrelated to the networks that were pursuing them. And this was not another of Mary's 'layers of subterfuge?' Sherlock asked unable to subdue his doubts about Mycroft's assessment.

 

Mycroft was astounded by his unassailably-rational brother's transparent disbelief. "Well, confirmation has been a little difficult. We suffered significant losses. Of course we expect some form of verification to be forthcoming, but given the current state of unrest in the region and the loss of our intelligence, that may not be possible for a while yet. We must establish new contacts first..."

 

"You cannot be sure, can you?" he snapped at Mycroft. Although Sherlock had failed to protect John from the most dangerous nemeses—love and the heartache it caused—he was not going to be persuaded so easily until he had all the facts. "Allow me, brother, not to believe this report until there is incontrovertible proof."

 

"Your prerogative. I don't know how it will do you or John much good. Whatever their fates, it will not change the fact that Mary left John and took their child." Perplexed by Sherlock's obstinacy, Mycroft shrugged again in weary resignation. "It may take months to sort through the ruins of this heinous and random assault. The devastation is widespread. If you believe this will mollify the grieving doctor and return you to his good graces, Sherlock, who am I to object? "

 

"That is not what I intend. I see no point in deceiving him  _again_! John has made it quite clear that whatever leniency he might have for me, he has decidedly drawn the line about being kept in the dark. I cannot cross that line," Sherlock retorted. "Proof has to be substantiated. They might still be alive…."

 

"Your friend has already been pushed to the edge of grief. Believing they died in a fire might be less horrifying than learning they died at the hands of extremists. The outcome remains the same: he knows they are dead, why not leave it be?" In the face of Sherlock's persistence, Mycroft sighed. "Tell him what you like, but keep in mind that for John their deaths happened once and he will grieve and move past it. To make him confront it twice is another matter, Sherlock. How many times and in how many variations do you think John Watson can bear to hear his wife and daughter have died?"

 

"He would leave no stone unturned if there was the slightest chance his daughter was alive, and yes for Mary too! We can't make that decision for him, to coldly assume it's better that he doesn't have even that marginal hope!" Sherlock argued. "He'd prefer the truth, Mycroft…." But Sherlock was no longer so sure, not when John's emotions were so raw. When he had launched his investigation six days earlier, Sherlock had felt himself united with John in this common purpose—to prove one way or another who had caused the fire. Now Mycroft was intent on dividing them: John on one side, knowing nothing and Sherlock on the other side, knowing all. Another thought occurred to him. "Did Mary ever learn that John had not died in the fire?"

 

"You seriously want to entertain such a hypothetical right now?" Mycroft was vexed, "May I point out that you are being  _irrational_  in denying the irrefutable demise of the Watson family. You have tolerated a great deal for your friend. You have allowed this dangerous woman to play house with him for two years, to parade their daughter in the pretense that they could exist as an ordinary family, and you would have willingly let him go because you think that it is what he wants. Your rejection of the facts is delusional."

 

"So, it seems…." Sherlock was angry at himself for not protecting John from the heartache of loving Mary, from her guile and the life she had promised him, now broken. When Sherlock had returned from his mission, it was too late to intervene; John seemed happy. He had already fallen in love—with Mycroft's plant—and Sherlock had been left to deal with the consequences of his prolonged absence. The damage caused by Mary's disappearance, however, would likely take a terrible toll on John.

 

It had been difficult to keep silent for six days when all Sherlock had to offer his friend was baseless conjecture. With Mycroft's confirmation, Sherlock had proof, but the news was ultimately disturbing on many levels. During the two years Sherlock had spent dismantling Moriarty's network, John had been vulnerable in a way the detective had not foreseen: his friend needed  _companionship_. Sherlock could only fault himself for letting the Watson romance unfold the way it did, but had he objected, he risked losing John's friendship—concluding half a loaf is better than none. By stepping back and away, to leave room for Mrs. Watson, Sherlock found himself in freefall. And now, on account of Mary, John was falling with him. There would be no magic tricks here to break the fall this time.

 

"I've warned you not to get involved, Sherlock," Mycroft fumed. He was loath to deal with the repercussions of fractured relationships and was quite cross with his brother for involving him. But with Sherlock, there were no half-way measures; the younger Holmes constantly went to extremes, experimenting with things  _verboten_. Of course, Mycroft was thankful that Sherlock's addiction to drugs had most times found a better substitute in the addiction to an abiding friendship, but so much hinged on John Watson and it caused emotional messes for Sherlock of one kind or other.  _Fools rush in/Where wise men fear to tread_  were lyrics to a popular tune that resonated with Mycroft. Observing his brother's failed attempts at connecting with others had validated Mycroft's decision to remain aloof from intimacy.

 

"I've grown weary of your foolishness, brother mine," Mycroft said heatedly feeling bothered and becoming accusatory. "Despite my constant warnings, you formed attachments not only with John Watson, but with the entire family he'd built. You've allowed a siren of lethal seductiveness to sing her way into your friend's heart. You did not rush to cover his ears because you had succumbed—within hours of meeting her—to her promise that she would 'bring him round.'"

 

Mycroft moved slowly closer to his brother, assailing him with a voice sharpened by criticism. "Deferring to a misguided sense of contrition for your two-year hiatus, you did not act to divide the 'happy couple.' I would have thought, Sherlock, that once you had returned you would have dissuaded your friend to abandon the affair, but you did nothing. Instead, you surrendered your reason to a belief that this substitute life was what John Watson wanted and then you went on, on his behalf, to make extreme sacrifices that had put you in peril."

 

Sherlock offered no counterargument.

 

"This has got to stop! How many times will you ignore me?" Mycroft's final words snapped like a whip. "Caring is not an advantage, Sherlock!"

 

 

ooOOOoo


	19. "Not by accident, but by design."

**ooOOOoo**

Gift of Silence

**ooOOOoo**

 

**Saturday, 27 May, 2017**

 

"So, that's when  _I_  walked in." John interjected softly. "I heard Mycroft saying that."

 

"That's what we were...disputing when you surprised us." Weariness softened Sherlock's voice and one corner of his mouth lifted in a slight smile. "It is said  _confession is good for the soul_ , but I must be without one since I don't feel  _at all_  good after telling you what I had learned that day. ' _…but in the end truth will out.'_ "

 

John said nothing.

 

Sherlock studied his silent friend closely. John stood unseeing opposite him, all his energy and attention turned inward. Sherlock's revelation had knocked the wind out of his initial anger, but was it a mortal blow to their friendship?

 

 _It is as I feared. You saw but you did not observe, John. Could you not see what I was doing, or rather_ NOT  _doing? Remember the curious incident of the dog in the night-time?—the dog did nothing. That was the curious incident. I did nothing, John. I said nothing. You did not see that as curious, then?_

 

Wanting to console to his friend, Sherlock stretched out his hand. It hovered briefly near John's shoulder, the once-shattered one, but Sherlock hesitated and let it fall back to his side. His touch might snap John from his stupor, make him throw off Sherlock's hand in a resurgence of grief or in rage; make him storm out the door. Whatever John's reaction, Sherlock would deserved it because he had kept his silence too long. John was justified in feeling betrayed.

 

 _Idiot!_   _No wonder John seems stunned._

 

Expecting John to read between the lines may not have been the best course of action. Indeed, Sherlock was guilty of a grave misjudgement by withholding the truth. And just as Sherlock had not expected his mission to take two years, he had not anticipated John would need five months to figure this out. Then again, Sherlock could never fathom—he could only approximate—how his friend felt as a husband and father experiencing such a devastating loss, nor how long it would take for the melancholy to abate.

 

What had made him think John's emotional recovery would be as simple as a switch? One day John was not good— _click!_ —the next day John would become his old self and they could proceed? Certainly, with enough  _emotional distance_  from tragedy John would be ready to hear the facts. Instead, John's pain never flickered, not once—there was no off switch—and now the ticking bomb of Sherlock's silence was about to explode between them.

 

For any man it would have been too much, but John Watson was still standing, literally, although not for long. He was beginning to sway on his feet.

 

Utterly deflated, John sank into his arm chair and brought up a hand to cover his face. His thoughts tilted and swirled and he experienced an upheaval not unlike his vertigo from several weeks ago. As nausea gripped him, John quickly raised his eyes, located a focal point—the familiar sight of Smiley on the flocked, dark-chocolate fleur-de-lys wallpaper—and recovered his equilibrium. He exhaled in relief when it passed, but kept his eyes fixed on the wall, unable to look at his friend. "So you were not a part of this…this...this plan?" he asked in a voice drained of emotion.

 

"No. And had I been," Sherlock admitted quietly and dropped into his own leather chair, "I would have ensured its success, as long as that was what  _you_  wanted, John. The decision was yours to make. No one else's."

 

Sherlock remembered that time on the tarmac and imagined it would have been the same: a goodbye handshake and a wish for a good life. To believe that his friend had what he wanted with the family he loved would have had to sustain the detective—that had been the whole point in killing Magnussen. Except now he knew that helping John slip away into anonymity with Mary would have been a terrible mistake—John might have died….

 

With clasped hands Sherlock leant forward, hoping John was listening. "John?" he whispered.

 

John tilted his head, although his eyes held their stare.

 

"You think I fail to understand grief. All I know is grief may not be the same for everyone. Your grief I may never understand…." John's slight grimace encouraged Sherlock to continue, "but I feel grief right  _now..._ when I see you here ...knowing there is little I can do to help."

 

John returned his focus to Sherlock. "Why didn't you tell me sooner what you knew?"

 

Sherlock shifted uncomfortably and looked away, not to deceive, but to conceal his regrets.  _Idiot! Answer him. He needs to hear_ something _. You owe him that much._

 

"You were in such... pain," Sherlock answered uneasily. "Your wife and daughter were possibly dead. And I was no longer sure about the truth...I almost told you what I knew right after the Inquest, but then, what was the point? It was an impossible situation and the outcome was no different."

 

This time, when their gazes locked, John found he could believe what he saw in Sherlock's eyes.

 

"So, my girls… are  _really_ gone…?" John's words escaped in a hoarse whisper. As morning's brilliance streamed through the east-facing kitchen window, John pinched the bridge of his nose, trying to compose himself "—they were  _murdered_  after all." Hanging his head, he cupped his hands over his sorrowful face, and though his shoulders shook, he emitted no sounds.

 

Sherlock pushed back in his own chair, closed his eyes, and tented his fingertips against his lips. He was always awkward and unsure how to proceed in this realm of sentiment. His ineptitude in dealing with strong emotions made him reticent—even when it came to John—especially so, for he valued John's friendship. Whilst offering sympathy was not beyond his ken—it was only words, after all—to do it as John deserved him to do—with sincerity and humility, felt an impossible task. How does one comfort another whose grief exceeds all comprehension? Platitudes and condolences were so inadequate that silence seemed preferable. Sherlock knew of no other way to show profound respect for his stricken friend than by  _not_  acknowledging John in his weakest moment and thereby permitting him to save face. Sherlock would wait as long as necessary for John to compose himself. He honored John's strength and pride too highly to embarrass him.

 

Once John cleared his throat and rubbed his eyes, Sherlock kindly offered the only statement he knew was true. "I'm sorry—"

 

With barely a nod of his head, John acknowledged that he accepted Sherlock's sentiments. Still unable to reply, he returned his gaze to the window.

 

 _We'll get through this as well, John!_  Sherlock assured the John-in-his-head. According his friend the same privacy Sherlock himself would have wanted were the circumstances reversed, Sherlock took refuge in the kitchen.

 

Mucking about with feelings was so foreign to him, he tried to analyze the problem as he would a case. Whilst filling the kettle for tea and turning it on, he debated strategies and goals, shaping both long-term and short-term measures that might help John cope; until it occurred to Sherlock that there was only one goal—to get John past this and healed. The objective was simple, but  _how_  to accomplish it was more nebulous. Sherlock considered his options.

 

 _Long-term objective—John wants_ stability  _in relationships but_ challenges  _in his work, not the reverse._

 

It was well within Sherlock's power to provide both, but rather than deciding  _for_  John, he must take his lead  _from_  John on how to proceed. After this latest debacle, Sherlock needed to earn back John's trust.

 

 _Patience!_  John could not be pushed too hard, or he would pull away. It was decidedly going to take time. And there may well be setbacks, but Sherlock was willing to do what he had once promised— "whatever it takes"—to accomplish it. John almost certainly would take far longer to "come round" this time. He may never fully return to his "old self again;" they may never fully recover "the thrill of the chase" they had once shared at the onset of their partnership; the specters of Mary and Rosamund might always create a tiny rift between them, but Sherlock was certain of one important thing. For John Watson, Sherlock would see this struggle to the end—because John was his friend, and that's what friends did.

 

Sherlock glanced into the sitting room. He wondered if his exhausted friend had fallen asleep and noted the angle of John's hand and arm to his shoulder that confirmed his suspicion. Sherlock quickly decided on part two of his strategy.

 

_Short-term—John needs rest. And after rest, John needs food;_

 

Sherlock was quiet as he opened cabinets and the fridge, careful not to disturb John's badly needed rest. An archaic child's poem—utter nonsense—about bare cupboards and giving the poor dog a bone popped into his brain when he failed to locate anything more than a can of Heinz Oxtail soup and a nearly finished box of Nestles Cheerios. Frustrated that his search for food—the simplest of short-term goals—yielded poor results, Sherlock panicked momentarily.

 

_No food!_

 

Seconds later, he bounded down the stairs, and pounded on Mrs. Hudson's door.

 

"Sherlock!" Mrs. Hudson belted her dressing gown tightly around her as she wedged the door part-way open. "It's  _early_  on a Saturday—"

 

"—you're stating the obvious, Mrs. Hudson." Sherlock interrupted. "However, should you be making breakfast  _soon_ …John has returned…for a visit, not as a patient. His hearing is fine, he does not have vertigo, but he is sure to be hungry, and of course, making omelettes are not my…  _thing_." Sherlock pivoted to leave, but turned back. "I don't have any eggs. Or bread. Or jam. Or sausages." He darted off. "Or  _clean_  cutler _y!"_

 

"What about milk, then?" She called after him as he hurried up the stairs.

 

He swung his head over the banister to reply. "Don't have  _that,_ either."

 

"Oh, Sherlock!" she sighed, "What  _do_  you have?"

 

"Only John."

 

Sherlock took the remaining steps two at a time and returned to the sitting room to find John's chair empty. The clutch of disappointment instantly vanished when Sherlock noticed John staring vacantly out the far window overlooking Baker Street.

 

"I thought you said you were expecting me," John deadpanned and shot an odd look at his friend. "Let's see. No eggs, no bread, no jam, no sausages…no milk. Doesn't sound like you're expecting  _anybody,_  Sherlock."

 

"I have  _tea_." Sherlock flashed him a placating grin and opened the cupboard to produce the evidence. "See?"

 

"Tea is fine." John nodded wearily, managing a weak smile. "Don't have the stomach for eating…."

 

"You will," the detective stated with quiet confidence, "once you catch the aroma of a home-cooked Full English."

 

As their tea steeped, John remained gazing out the window to mull over Sherlock's conversation with Mycroft, upset that he had been living a lie with the woman he had loved, the one who had rescued him from desolation and with whom he had been willing to build a lifetime of memories—the lifetime Sherlock had promised on their wedding day:  _"So know this: today you sit between the woman you have made your wife and the man you have saved—in short, the two people who love you most in all this world. And I know I speak for Mary as well when I say we will never let you down, and we have a lifetime ahead to prove that."_ A lifetime cut short by unforgivable deeds and a relentless past. How could Sherlock have got it so wrong? How had he not seen it? And was John a fool for believing any of it?

 

John did not know how long he drifted among his thoughts as Sherlock finished in the kitchen but when John registered that his tea  _with milk—_  Sherlock must have run down again to Mrs. Hudson's to retrieve some _—_ had been set on the table beside his chair, he sank down in the familiar cushions and sipped quietly.

 

"I'm an idiot." John sighed minutes later.

 

Sherlock, now seated opposite him with a mug between his hands, arched a brow in surprise, not in agreement.

 

"I missed all the obvious warning signs," John's gaze skipped toward the window again. He sipped and replaced his mug on the table. "I should have known something was up when Mary became skittish…weeks before."

 

"For the normal person such signs are often clearer in hindsight."

 

"But  _you_  would have noticed."

 

"You underestimated Mary, John. Sadly, so did I. She was a consummate professional, an intelligence operative, who knew how to disguise her intentions."

 

Sherlock didn't fool John; the detective may have kept a respectful distance from the Watson household, but Mary's behavior, had he been present to observe it, would not have hoodwinked Sherlock.

 

John slouched in the comfortably familiar cigar chair and studied his friend briefly before tilting his head back, resting it on the head cushion, and gazed at the ceiling. "Well, I don't know that I want to believe the half of it."

 

'Which half?" Sherlock peered guardedly over the rim of his own mug at John who kept staring at the ceiling.

 

"Oh, the first half and the last half. And all the halves in the middle."

 

Sherlock grinned ruefully.

 

'I  _miss_  them—" John steadied the wobble in his voice and continued. "Every  _day_. Hell,  _every_ minute. Rosie is…, um, was…" John could not finish. He swallowed, and cleared his throat and exhaled the last word on a soft breath "…perfect." John raised his head and looked sternly beyond Sherlock as if he was having an argument. "Yes. She was! She  _was_ perfect." His eyes came back to Sherlock. "She was the reason we stayed together… We loved her," John forced his voice to remain even. He rubbed his eyes with the heels of his hands and again looked blankly out the far window. 'And I loved Mary for loving her."

 

Legs tucked beneath him, Sherlock turned slightly away from John and studied his long since-memorized mug. He was finding it unusually challenging to remain disengaged from John's emotional distress.

 

Without warning, John rocketed from his chair. "What the  _bloody hell_  is wrong with me? If I believe all that Mycroft told you, not only did I fall in love with such a lethal and treacherous agent who may have had ulterior motives, but after what she did to…" John raised his eyes in anguish, "after she shot you and nearly killed you …. I allowed myself to be pushed into reconciling with her—"

 

"—I don't regret encouraging you to do so; it was the safer course for you and your unborn child." Sherlock interjected, his hawk-like scrutiny focused on his troubled friend.

 

"—Then explain this. I  _enjoyed_  her company!" John paced in a tight circle with his head down. "You warned me to be on my guard around her, Sherlock, but as I watched how she struggled to make right her wrongs, I could not help but feel sympathy and respect for how hard she was trying. Don't get me wrong. Being with her was often quite complicated, I wasn't always sure I could believe her, but I did grow to feel deeply for her again. She was especially good with our Rose. She was not perfect. Neither was I, but for Rosie's sake, we were doing our best. And I trusted her. I never felt threatened…."

 

"Hormones of attachment," Sherlock responded automatically. "Studying you both for years, I had considered the same question many times myself and concluded these were the catalysts— _oxytocin_  and  _vasopressin_ in particular."

 

"What?" John halted, more rattled by Sherlock's admission that he and Mary had been subjects of the detective's long-term study than by his reference to hormones, which were, after all, the chemical components of emotions.

 

"You asked for an explanation. Of course you know love is chemical _,_ John! Affects the brain, the most complex organ in the body." Sherlock tapped his temple in demonstration and commenced speed-talking. "Lust, attraction, and attachment have been touted as three main stages of love and each stage has it set of hormones… There's  _dopamine, norepinephrine_  or  _adrenalin_ , and then there's  _serotonin_  that leads to temporary insanity. Scans have shown the brain in love to have similarities with mental illness. The primitive parts of the brain are flooded with sensations; the primal message is transmitted by the vagus nerve, which the modern cerebral cortex must decipher, sometimes spinning a narrative that is not based on reality. That expression,  _love is blind_  is far more accurate as a physiological side-effect…"

 

"Sherlock." John crossed his arms, hoping the lecture would be a short one.

 

"…the whole  _point_  is biological —to keep the human species alive and reproducing like a virus." Sherlock stopped suddenly, realizing only in that moment how he must have sounded.

 

"Sure makes me feel better," John scowled, "when you put it like that…"

 

Sherlock inhaled deeply and slowed to his normal voice and tempo. "What I'm trying to say is the biochemistry of love causes the 'natural' reactions that occur within the human body when infants are introduced to the equation. Your mutual attachment to Rosamund bonded you with Mary…" Whilst he did not say it aloud, Sherlock also concluded that there was something to be said on Mary's behalf for staying to raise Rosamund and not abandoning John after her birth. The family life she had wanted with John had ensured John and Rosamund's safety.

 

John resumed pacing, his brow furrowed in thought, his hands clasped behind his back, only to break his silence after several minutes. "I presume what Mycroft said about A.G.R.A. may well be true, but what  _Mary_  was trying to become, even with her slip ups, was a better person and I admired her for trying. At least that is what I believed once Rosie was born."

 

From his own interactions with the criminal mind, Sherlock knew those who dwelt outside the social norms often had trouble finding and following a moral compass. On the case of Mary Watson who played the part of happy wife with John, Sherlock had spent years analyzing her intriguing behavior. Whilst he remained alert and cautious, he had grown reluctant to ascribe complete villainy to her actions. Frequently, he saw decency. Especially with regards to John, he saw a unique  _love_. Even leading up to the New Year's Eve scheme, she had appeared to have gone to great lengths to find redemption with another new name, a good man, and an ordinary family, and Sherlock admired that. But more so, it was the healing effect John Watson had on the many damaged people Sherlock had seen cross the doctor's path. John facilitated reclamation. Sherlock knew this first-hand. Could he fault Mary for wanting John with her? "She was on good behavior," Sherlock admitted softly giving each word gentle emphasis, "She did it for you, John."

 

Turning back toward the window, John nodded that he had heard and chose to divert the conversation from an unwanted topic. "You mentioned a missed message?"

 

"There were actually two." Sherlock corrected him, grateful for the shift to more tangible aspects of the case. "One claimed a family emergency requiring you to rendezvous with them at a hospital in Maldon. Had you been free to leave rather than having to see to your critical patient and taken a taxi or rented a car, you doubtless would have had ample time to meet them. When you failed to respond within fifteen minutes, Mary sent you a second…"

 

"I never received either of them. You said that was because her cellular signal had been hacked and intercepted...I don't understand. What exactly does that mean?"

 

"Her text was deleted from your phone within a minute after it arrived in your device. You could only have read it if you had picked it up immediately. That is why you never knew she texted you."

 

"So how do you know about her messages?"

 

"They were still in her phone. You may not have remembered, but I examined it after the police had returned it to you."

 

"Of course I don't remember. I was walking in a  _bloody_ fog those days, but her phone was password protected…"

 

Sherlock rolled his eyes.

 

"Wait!" John patted his pockets and pulled out the mobile and charger, taking them to the kitchen to plug in. "I actually brought it with me. I wanted you to look at it. I thought it odd she left it in the car."

 

"You're right, John. It was not left in the car by accident, but by design." Sherlock had followed John and now leaned against the worktop as they talked.

 

"All right, Sherlock, show me the messages." As soon as the display indicated that the mobile had enough power to turn on, John handed him the phone with the charger still plugged into the outlet.

 

The detective's nimble fingers pressed in the code, John watching every move over Sherlock's arm. "She password-protected each text conversation and apparently deleted all the other conversations except the last two messages to you."

 

Mary's text conversation to John appeared.  _Please come ASAP. Family emergency. St Peters Hospital, Maldon. No more than 2.5hrs or too late._

 

"She expected you would drop everything and meet her," Sherlock said evenly, keeping his voice from betraying his relief that John had  _not_  got her message. "See here: the date and time stamp indicated this was when you were dealing with your patient going into cardiac arrest. You were too busy and no where near your phone—"

 

"—Thank  _God._ " Finishing the inference he sensed from Sherlock's voice and demeanor, John gave Sherlock a sharp look that gradually softened. "Is that what you  _almost_  said?"

 

Their eyes met briefly then Sherlock averted his, with lips pressed into a thin line of displeasure at having been caught out.

 

"Strange," John teased, "especially as you don't believe in a being greater than yourself."

 

"I cannot say whether a deity was involved," the detective affirmed, "but I can attest a conscientious doctor was putting the needs of his patient first ..." Sherlock dropped his gaze to the floor to conceal his final thought,  _which saved_   _the life of my friend._

 

A sad smile showed in John's eyes before he, too, examined the linoleum.

 

"Anyway!" Sherlock resumed, redirecting their attention to the messages. "As her first text had failed to reach you, she had little time to do anything else before departing. By then she must have suspected her phone had been hacked and the message might have been intercepted. What would someone as savvy as Mary do? She could no longer trust the cellular activity or access to networks, so she used her mobile as a standalone device and prepared another text which she did not send but left in the message bar. She was waiting, you see,  _waiting_  for someone to look at her phone, which she deliberately left in the car and not in the house to burn with all the other personal belongings. And why? She  _needed_  it to be found, John. Look at the second message. It is oddly long and confusing at first glance."

 

John read the heading. "31st December 2016 To Do List:"

 

_John needs socks._

_Must look at the catalog for shrubs. I like heather._

_In the neighbor's barn there is a net we can use to trap butterflies_

_and find specimens good for us._

 

"What the hell?" John shook his head in dismay. "What was she on about? I don't understand this—"

 

"—She never meant for you to understand it. It was meant for  _me_ to decipher."

 

"You can't know that, Sherlock," John was annoyed.

 

"But I can. The night Magnussen buried you in the Bonfire at St. James the Less, Mary came to me with the skip code that appeared on her mobile warning us of your dilemma. On New Year's Eve she used the same technique, knowing I would immediately recognize it and decipher her message."

 

John frowned and shook his head at the idea Sherlock was positing. "So, you know what it means, then?"

 

Nodding assent, Sherlock copied the entire message, started a new conversation and pasted it in another text message box on Mary's phone.

 

He recited the phrases with emphasis.

 

 **_"John_ ** **** _needs socks._

 _Must_ _**look** _ **** _at the catalog_ _**for** _ **** _shrubs. I like_ **heather** _._

 _In the neighbor's_ _**barn** _ **** _there is a_ _**net** _ **** _we can use_ _**to** _ **** _trap butterflies_

 _and_ _**find** _ **** _specimens good for_ _**us** _ _."_

 

Then, deleting all the unimportant words, Sherlock condensed the sentence.

 

**_John, look for heather barn net to find us._ **

 

"Heather Barnet?" John looked stunned and grabbed the phone from Sherlock's hands. "What does this mean?"

 

"Mary designed that message to be enigmatic to anyone who found it but I could not rest until I understood  _why_  she left it." With John holding the phone, Sherlock was no longer tethered by its charger cord and strode to the boxes of police records piled in the sitting room, pointing. "Why do you think I had Lestrade send us these cold cases from different regions? I've been looking for Heather Barnet since I read Mary's message."

 

John's mouth gaped. He followed Sherlock into the sitting room, bursting with questions, but no words came out.

 

It did not matter. Sherlock had enough to say for the both of them, but as a show of respect—after all, this was Mary's final message to John—Sherlock did not proceed with his customary exuberance. "When I discovered the cold case about the girl's disappearance, I showed it to you to see if the name sounded familiar, perhaps Mary might have mentioned it, but you had no reaction to the name and showed no interest whatsoever. I had to assume Mary had never brought it up. It was a stroke of luck that Nurse Hardings had requested we pursue the case of the pedophile. It perfectly aligned our investigation with Heather Barnet's disappearance. If one wanted to thank a deity, this too would be reason."

 

Not meaning to sound callous, but needing to sound factual, Sherlock paused and eyed John. Inflicting more pain was not his intention, but the truth was not the easiest to hear. The significance and sentimental value of a wife's message from beyond the grave to her grieving husband, even if the meaning were unclear, was evident in how hard John struggled to remain composed.

 

Sherlock waited, his eyes downcast, his head slightly titled to listen.

 

"We are still talking about the same missing girl lost in the quarry pits?" Despite himself, John was pulled by the absorbing connections to their case. "Didn't you just determine she  _died_  there?"

 

"I did. After yesterday's revelations from Willard, I deduced that the body of Heather Barnet, the twelve-year old who went missing seventeen years ago, would be found in the quarry pits. I had been working out the logistics before you arrived this morning and am certain I've located the general area we need to inspect. I have since directed the local constabulary where to look."

 

"Seventeen years is a long time, Sherlock."

 

"It is. Often when a body remains undiscovered despite extraordinary search efforts, one must look to natural forces for the reason. In this case, John, it seems those areas around the clunch quarry had been known to become unstable and rife with fissures during heavy rains. Weather records indicated that in the days before and after Heather's disappearance, torrential rain had caused massive flooding in the area. After Keith chased his cousin away, I suspect Heather became disoriented and had dashed off in the direction of the quarry where she was 'swallowed' by a sinkhole. By the time the police had brought out the dogs to investigate, her scent and other traces that might have led them to the woods and the quarry pits had been washed away."

 

"I still do not see how this ties in with Mary."

 

"You might recall that I had discovered your wife's name had been borrowed from the grave of a stillborn child in Chiswick Cemetery, London. Yesterday, during Willard's account of his activities with Keith Barnet—he said Keith was mourning the death of his best friend. Willard had mentioned the name 'Timmy M- something' originally from Harlton. Keith cleared up the mystery last night in the police station. His friend's name was Timothy Morstan. After Timmy died in a London hospital from complications of his leukemia, his parents arranged to have him buried in Chiswick Cemetery. Later, they moved their stillborn's marker from the local cemetery in Harlton so Mary Morstan's remains would spend eternity next to her brother in Chiswick Cemetery."

 

"Okay," John exhaled slowly, still unclear on the connections that seemed obvious to Sherlock. "So…Mary picked the name from the gravestone of the sister of the brother who was best friends with Keith who happened to be Heather's cousin. Did I get that right? So you don't think it's just coincidence that she would tell us to look for Heather Barnet?"

 

"The Universe is not so lazy…" Sherlock shook his head. "No, John. When it comes to Mary, this was not done by accident; as I've said before, it was done by design."

 

"Sherlock. Do me a favor," John verged on exasperated. "Simplify!"

 

"At the time of Heather's disappearance, Anna Grace Randell-Adams, a brilliant American college student was reading a double major in biologic/earth sciences— I obtained a copy of her transcript from her years of study at the University of Cambridge, after cross checking some MI6 information with University records. As part of her geology coursework researches, she frequented the clunch quarry pits on field trips with the Uni for samples. She was familiar enough with the region and the unfolding local stories, not only about the dying boy the good-hearted community had rallied behind until his death, but also with Heather Barnet's disappearance which had become the next big story for that community."

 

"So, Mary—Anna Grace—whatever, A.G.R.A. crossed paths with these unfortunate families…"

 

"More than crossed paths, I suspect she had become emotionally invested. One of her research papers, entitled  _Harlton Clunch Pits: Impact past and present_ , was an insightful and sympathetic study regarding the history of the quarries on the local residents. Years later, when the rogue CIA agent, A.G.R.A., needed a new identity, she chose what was familiar to her and held fond memories for her: England, Cambridgeshire. The most convincing lies succeed because they are easy to authenticate—there is enough verifiable fact to make the lies plausible. She had intimate knowledge of the news within the Harlton community, as well as what happened to Timmy and Heather. She chose the identity of Mary Morstan perhaps because these people were real to her." Sherlock paused and watched John, waiting for his information to sink in.

 

"You think, then, her text message was not telling us to look for the missing Heather Barnet…." John's brows furrowed. "She was suggesting that you and I…" he fumbled for words.

 

Sherlock jumped in. "She was letting you know she would take another new name. That her new identity would be Heather Barnet."

 

John went silent, his face clouded by anger and confusion. "I'm not sure I understand. Heather Barnet went  _missing_. No one knew for sure she was dead, she could have been a runaway….She would have been all of—what?—twenty-nine by now… around the same age as her cousin Keith. Younger than Mary by a decade…"

 

"The age is not relative here. Neither is what really happened to Heather Barnet." Sherlock no longer tried to keep impatience out of his voice. He grabbed John by both elbows. "Don't you see? Mary's phone message is pointing to her new identity which is connected to your wife's former identity by degrees of separation: Mary Morstan, sister of Timmy Morstan, friend of Keith Barnet, cousin of Heather Barnet. That's what makes this new name significant. There are likely hundreds of thousands of women named Heather Barnet across the globe. In fact, our bringing the story to light just now might cause more attention to that name, but realizing we are looking for a Heather Barnet—we've just eliminated this one from our search—is what matters."

 

"Shut up!" John skewered Sherlock with a sharp look and broke free. "What good is looking for Heather Barnet if Mary and Rosie are … _dead_?" The last word caught in his throat.

 

John's question instantly extinguished Sherlock's fire; Sherlock wavered, sat back down in his leather chair, and hugged his knees.

 

"The  _truth_ , Sherlock!" John demanded.

 

Sherlock nodded soberly. "Hypothetically speaking, until we can be absolutely sure that Mary and Rosamund were victims of the terrorist attack, we cannot dismiss the possibility they might still be alive. It's been months. The region is still in conflict. As a result, irrefutable proof that they perished in Turkey cannot be recovered. You  _know_  me, John—I will not rest…"

 

"After all this time," John whispered hoarsely. "How likely is that?"

 

Sherlock frowned. "True. It may be a long shot and it is certainly mere conjecture at this point, but I must ask myself: is it possible that your resourceful wife avoided that civilian massacre altogether? Perhaps she was  _never_  there at all, and concocted a deeper level of subterfuge to escape her enemies? Isn't it possible that someone with Mary's training and talents could protect your daughter as well as survive the challenges she must have faced since she left? And if the answers to all these questions are  _yes_ , and if she has also learned that you did not die in the fire—as  _she_  was led to believe—she  _will_  be back for you."

 

"So you are keeping watch," John picked up on cue as if Sherlock had spoken those words, "but …to help me find her or to protect me from her?" John eyed his friend with misgivings.

 

Sherlock contemplated his reply for several moments. "I'm sorry, John, but your life may be in danger  _if_ she managed to survive. There's more than adequate evidence of her cleverness so we should not underestimate her ability to have done so. If she really  _is_ alive, then she knows how vulnerable she is as long as you remain outside her protective control...If any of her foes suspect she's alive,  _you_  are the target that will draw her out—her Achilles' heel. I promise you, John, I'll remain vigilant for your sake as well as to search for Heather Barnet  _and_  your daughter in the event that the phoenix arises from the ashes of the life you had had with Mary. You'll need to decide if finding her is what you want…"

 

John drew a breath and exploded. "Sod it! Sod it!  _Bloody_  hell!" John spun about and knocked over the wooden chair. "What am I supposed to do with  _this_ —?" He muttered obscenities in a furious stream, scrubbed his hands through his hair, and paced in tight circles in the center of the room until he had spent his rage. "Is this what you  _believe, Sherlock_?"

 

"Believe? No." Speaking in a soothing voice, Sherlock pursed his lips and waited for John to calm down completely. "Just because something is possible does not mean that it is highly  _probable_ , but until we have incontrovertible evidence, ruling it out would be intellectually dishonest."

 

"So  _now_  what, Sherlock? Should I be rushing to find and rescue my daughter or, or, or will I be causing  _more_  harm by searching for her?"

 

Sherlock wagged his head soberly. "If you try to find her, you increase the chances that your investigation would blow their cover, putting all three of you in jeopardy."

 

"I don't care about me…or Mary….I care about the life Rosie will have—without me," John swallowed hard straining to finish before his voice broke completely, "protecting her, guiding her… I will  _miss_  her growing up," he finished plaintively. "What should I do?"

 

"There is nothing you  _can_  do, John, that won't endanger her," Sherlock sank his chin against his chest, "so long as the truth is unknown. But to imagine the unthinkable allows us to be ready for it. Even so, this is the problem with making assumptions based upon so little evidence. We have no confirmation one way or other about their fates. All we have is a promise in Mary's clue about Heather Barnet. That is little help at the moment, I realize. We have no choice but to give it time."

 

"Give it time." John snorted a bitter laugh. "How many times have I heard  _that_  since January."

 

He picked up the chair he had knocked over, set it under the table and rested his hands on the chair back to compose his thoughts. With closed eyes, he let out a soft moan, and rubbed his temples.

 

"Bollocks! I'm so pissed off at Mary for not trusting me, for leaving me, and especially for taking Rosie and for— _dy-_ ing—" John struggled to finish, "which may or may not have happened. What's worse, I thought, no, I  _know_  she loves me. Christ! I don't know how to deal with this anger, and if I were to see her again, I'd—" John stopped and opened his eyes. "I'd probably give her a bloody nose because I missed her so much and was glad she was not dead…."

 

He exhaled and spoke with renewed conviction in his voice. "But I do  _want_  Rosie in my life. For her sake, Sherlock—and only for her—I will give it time. Other than that, I cannot possibly decide what it is that I want and I'm too tired to think about it now."

 

John patted the chair apologetically as if to amend the insult he had caused the inanimate object and sighed. "With all this time I'm supposed 'to give,' waiting for the inevitable, I don't think I can spend it living the way I have. The life I thought I wanted had its ups and downs. No matter now, it's gone. The house is a wreck—literally— " he smiled shamefacedly at the memory of his rampage of hours ago. "You should see the mess I left..."

 

John was interrupted by the unmistakable aroma of sausages, toast, and eggs coming from the flat below. He licked his lips, his appetite whetted and his conscience sharpened. "You know, Sherlock," he objected weakly, "Mrs. Hudson is your  _landlady_ —"

 

"—not my  _cook_! Oh yes, and not my  _housekeeper_ ," Sherlock groaned in mock exasperation making a long face. "Is there a  _point_  to this?"

 

"Yes," John countered, "you're taking advantage of her. You don't stock your fridge; you don't prepare your meals."

 

"And she _likes_  it," Sherlock refuted. "It gives her purpose."

 

"In  _your_  opinion."

 

"And hers," Sherlock corrected. "She's told me so herself from time-to-time—when she's tipsy—but  _in vino veritas_. Opinion flies in the face of those facts, John. And the fact is she  _lives_  for it."

 

"Oh,  _Sherlock_!" Mrs. Hudson called from below. "Would you fetch these breakfast trays?"

 

Her sing-song voice did not sound at all put upon, proving the detective's point. Sherlock smirked and John frowned.

 

"But, there will be a point when it becomes too much for her," John headed toward the landing, shouting down, "Coming, Mrs. Hudson!"

 

After John had bounded down the stairs, Sherlock's smirk dissolved into a hopeful smile.

ooOOOoo


	20. EPILOGUE

**Gift of Silence**

oooOOOooo 

oooOOOooo

 

**_Saturday, 17 June, 2017_ **

**_10:47 p.m._ **

 

"I can't read another personal column in the  _Daily Gazette._ " John folded the newspaper, leant back on the sofa and propped his feet up on the coffee table. "We've been working on this case thirteen hours straight. My  _bloody_  eyes are crossing," John huffed, rubbing them with his fists. "And if I keep this up I'll mean that literally."

 

Sherlock commanded the middle of the sitting room, standing amidst the chaos of his current investigation, surveying the information wall above John's head. The scattering of notes, photos, and maps pinned to the surface may not have made much sense to John, but the detective had already found important clues in the new case they had accepted just that morning.

 

"I think we're on to something now, John," Sherlock dismissed John's complaint. "Mrs. Warren's lodger who never leaves his rooms may, in fact, be involved in organized crime! This is how he's sending messages—"

 

"—The only message I care about, Sherlock," John stretched and stifled a yawn, "is the one my foggy brain is telling me. I need sleep…" now the yawn interrupted him, "and I have the early hours in the surgery tomorrow." John rose stiffly from the sofa, and took his mug to the kitchen.

 

Sherlock tensed. He watched John put the uneaten biscuits back in the tin, wash the mug and set it, thoroughly cleansed and wiped-dry, back in the cupboard. And as he had done nearly every night for years, John reached for his jacket, prepared to leave. Although Sherlock had  _thought_  he had detected a shift in John's deportment of late, the detective saw once again he had been wrong to expect anything different so soon.  _Wishful thinking was not practical_.

 

Weeks since his truthful revelation, Sherlock had been encouraged by subtle changes in John, little indicators, hints that forgiveness and healing had begun. Several weeks ago, John had met Lestrade for a pint at a favorite pub, something he had not done since the cottage fire, then last week, the detective had overheard his friend on the phone with the  _letting_  agent discussing options for his house. The agent had rung John in the evening when they were working; John had merely strolled to the kitchen to respond to the agent's questions, remaining within earshot. It had been easy to overhear that John had decided to let it as a way of generating more income. When John had rung off, however, neither he nor Sherlock had acknowledged the phone discussion, but continued their previous exchange about aspects of a certain case.

 

Three days ago, John had left— _forgotten?_ —by the flat door a small backpack, zipped tightly, severely challenging Sherlock to respect its privacy. On John's next visit to Baker Street, the backpack was no longer there. As John had already let himself into the flat before Sherlock had returned from St. Bart's, Sherlock knew who had moved it, but the missing bag was not discussed during the ensuing evening. After John had left that night, an excruciatingly curious Sherlock had gone up to the third-floor bedroom and opened John's wardrobe. Several shirts and trousers hung on the bar and a pair of John's trainers rested on the floor. Basic undergarments and socks were in the top dresser drawer.

 

A standing invitation to return to Baker Street had remained unspoken for months, but Sherlock had not even dared to hint about it after he had so sorely let John down. Why should he think John would consider flatsharing as a step forward and not a step backwards? Clothes in the wardrobe were an encouraging sign, however, especially since John had initiated these steps on his own.  _Give it time and John will find his way._

 

At the landing, John fumbled with his jacket, hitched it over his shoulders and then hesitated as if he remembered something. He gave his head a slight shake, removed his jacket and hung it on the peg. Squaring his shoulders decisively, John spun on his heel and headed to the third-floor stairs.

 

"G'night, Sherlock," was all he said as he began the climb.

 

 _John_? Sherlock peered in astonished disbelief.

 

As if he heard Sherlock's thought, John turned on the steps, came down to stand in the doorway, and scanned the flat with unmistakable nostalgia before catching Sherlock's eye. "My place has been cleaned up for tenants, my things packed up, I can't stay there. Moving out and on, for now…that's best. Besides, there's room in your empty fridge for my groceries and I think Mrs. Hudson would appreciate someone who can actually prepare his own meals." John let the implications hang in the air, although the truth was clearly visible in the warmth of his eyes.

"What if Mary were to come looking for you...?" Despite himself, Sherlock whispered the difficult question, fearing that its utterance would ruin everything.

 

"You mean  _Heather Barnet_ , don't you?" John scratched his head thoughtfully and turned away. "You've told me how clever she is; but she doesn't have to be all that clever to know where to look. G'night." He continued up the stairs and closed the bedroom door.

 

"G'night, John...," Sherlock whispered to himself, stepped over the clutter of their current case, and dropped into his leather chair. He steepled his fingertips under his chin and sat motionlessly for several minutes examining the gift and the consequences of John's decision, the promise of their futures together, and the sentiments stirring deep within him.

 

 _Welcome home, ...my dear Watson_.

 

Leaning back with his hands on the armrests, Sherlock gave a soft sigh. His smile grew in the silence of the flat, and even though  _his_  audience _..._   _his_  friend _...John_ was not present to listen, it spoke volumes.

 

))))00000000000000000((((

**Steven Moffat and Mark Gatiss: "Whatever else we do, wherever we all go, all roads lead back to Baker Street – and it always feels like coming home."**

))))00000000000000000((((

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> While this fic is placed in the future right after Season 4, it is following a trajectory implied by the rumors and the winks of M&G. It does not officially "kill" off Mary and Baby Girl Watson--[identified on December 12, 2016 as Rosamund Mary Watson]—it presumes: they could be in a witness protection scheme to hide from assassins, and John would still grieve, or he might think they're dead, but they're in witness protection... or they might be killed off. Or they might not be forced to disappear at all and then this story enters the realm of AU! Who knows what M&G will decide to wring more tears out of us? Especially if Season 5 is a long ways off in the future.
> 
> All I tried to do in this story was find some middle ground between the Mary-haters and the Mary-lovers, give John the thrill of having a daughter at least temporarily, and to leave the interpretation open in the end. So, depending on how you interpret the ending, I have held to my statement.
> 
> But most importantly, I wanted to show how Sherlock and John's extraordinary bond of an enduring friendship has a language of its own. It has been my privilege to entertain you with my spin on the Sherlock series (to which I claim no rights, whatsoever). Thank you.

**Author's Note:**

> There were many who encouraged me to write this story. From the beginning kate221B was instrumental in advising me on medical and britpicking matters; when she passed the baton, baillierj was quick to grab it and run with it, for which I am ridiculously grateful. While several of my closest FF friends have offered sound advice, I wish to extend my utmost thanks to my faithful beta baillierj, my devoted englishtutor, and my nameless expert in Canon Holmes. Those occasions when I've needed to quote BBC content, I have probably referred to any of the transcripts by Ariane DeVere aka Callie Sullivan, so I am quick to acknowledge and be forever grateful for this tremendous body of work. In addition I must thank chai4anne who challenged me.
> 
> And with heartfelt appreciation, I thank you for your Kudos! It means a great deal to me.


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